


What's a soldier, but a lover, whose life drew the wrong hand?

by magicspaghetti



Series: Hari Potter: a childhood of love and war [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Harry Potter, And Hedwig too, And is terrified of what Minerva will do to him if he hurts Hari, Animagus Hari, Animagus Mrs Figg, But he also respects Hari, Dumbledore..... hmm, F/F, F/M, Hari gets his lack of common sense from James, Harry Potter is Not a Horcrux, Harry and Draco are best friends, Harry has a pet snake!, He hates Hari for James but loves him for Lily, He probably means well but oh yikes, He's not a very nice man, Indian Harry Potter, James Potter is not dead, James Potter remembers he is a deer and stabs the noseless bastard, Like she's not as pureblooded fanaticy as she is in the actual books, Lily Evans Potter is unfortunately still dead, M/M, Narcissa Malfoy is actually kinda cool, She's still a squib though, Slytherin Harry Potter, Snape is also very complicated, mostly because I can't be bothered to write him as one, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-10 04:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicspaghetti/pseuds/magicspaghetti
Summary: A retelling of the Philosopher's Stone featuring half-Indian Hari, with a proper lightning-bolt scar, being kidnapped by Minerva McGonagall and her wife, Arabella Figg, at the age of 10 (just a few days before his 11th birthday) after realising Hari was being abused, a decidedly not-dead James Potter, and Hari being best buds with Draco Malfoy. There is so far only a friendship between them: this will grow to be more, but not in this book. I'm doing proper slow-burn this time. The characters are complex, and not especially similar to those in the Rowling books- what I mean to say is, don't take them at face value.





	1. The colour of murder is green

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing the story I've always wanted to read. It's inspired by a tonne of other fics on this website, but eventually will be unlike all of them. I'm not following any upload schedule- my chapters are usually about 2500 words, and that shit takes time- and I don't have or want a beta, so if the grammar or spelling is off, let me known in the comments. Speaking of comments: constructive criticism is appreciated, blatant criticism is NOT. Either way, enjoy the book, and the eventual series!

A frightened gurgle betrayed the silence of the house, the darkness that enveloped Godric’s Hollow now alight with flaming tongues of green, lashing at the house and those screaming inside. A plume of grey smoke twirled from the keyhole, a subtle sign of the magical machinations wrapping themselves around the dwelling. The green receded, and silence grew so heavy, so thick over the house. The door, pushed open by a hand of wind and ice, uttered a feeble creak, one last attempt of warning for those trapped inside, the only agent of the wards that didn’t fail them.

Cold laughter floated through the air, frost licking at the walls, an eerie green glow cupped in the hand of the figure that prowled down the corridor, towards the whitewashed door nestled at the back of the house, a golden ‘H’ upon the door. The door, locked and barricaded with a room’s worth of furniture, did little to muffle the crying of a small child, and the whispered panic of his mother, her frantic attempts to hush the babe, to save him even if she couldn’t save herself. An icy finger scraped down the wooden panelling of the door, once, twice, thrice;

The door flew off its hinges with the force of a flaming green maelstrom behind it.

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A dagger of green struck through the night, and the ensuing scream filled the freezing air with terror so tactile, the very walls shuddered. The figure grinned, a cold, teeth-filled grin with no kindness, no emotion other than sheer malicious cruelty whispering in those bared teeth. How fitting then, that this creature, this being of pure, cruel ambition, died with a look of surprise upon his face, skewered against the wall, butchered by the livid form of a terrified deer.

“Lily?” a mere whisper, the deer folded in upon itself, its pelt fading to reveal the human form it took, the messy locks of hair plastered against his forehead just as sweat has glistened on his cervine form, the steam from the deer’s body now mingling with the steam escaping the bloody punctures on the body of the figure slumped against the wall. A tentative hand reached towards her, towards the hair obscuring her face. With great tenderness, he stroked the hair from her face, only to see the frozen tears and glassy eyes of the woman he loved.

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Disbelief clouded his face, his thumb drawing circles across her cheek. “Lily? Lily, please wake up, Lily!” he whispered her name, panic driving his voice louder until a shrill scream exploded from him; and the silence shattered. A hushed cry rang through the air, and the sobbing began; wailing, retching sobs drowning the last embers of green from the house and filling every corner of the house with absolute devastation, the screaming cry of a man who had lost everything.  
The sniffling whimper of a small child, muffled beneath the figure sprawled across the floor, drew the man’s attention. He didn’t dare hope, the name flowing from his lips in an exhaled breath, puncturing the blanket of devastation with a tiny fleck of hope, hope growing and tearing at the darkness as an infant’s wail grew from beneath the figure, beneath Lily. A frantic movement, lifting up the body of his love to see his child, swaddled in Lily’s nightie, tears running down his tiny cheeks- tears and blood, dripping from his forehead. “Hari…” he breathed, a quaver in his voice betraying the tears that pushed against his eyes, “My son, my Hari, my darling…”

It wasn’t long before the white lights of illuminated wand-tips appeared around the wards, horrified looks at the crumbling house, singed where whips of flame had lashed it. Before, figures, be they friend or foe, began surrounding the boy and the babe, lifting them from the floor where they lay, the air crackling as they were apparated away, far away from the ruined house, from the life snatched not just from Lily, but from all of them. But it was a very long time before James Potter could look into the green eyes of his son Hari Potter without a tear creeping down his face.

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Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number 4, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Petunia Dursley was the loving wife of Vernon Dursley, and the doting mother of Dudley Dursley. But, like all families, they had a dirty little secret. “Boy! Why haven’t you cooked the bacon yet, you filthy little animal?” Hari Potter, son of Lily Evans and James Potter, Petunia’s nephew, filled that role in the Dursley family. “I’m… I’m sorry Uncle Vernon! I, I thought I had cooked it already, I must have forgotten.” A meaty slap, a whimper, and the hissing of pan after pan of greasy bacon were the most frequent sounds heard in the Dursley household at breakfast, and today was no different.

“Dudders! How’s my darling boy today, my big birthday boy!” Petunia’s voice was sickeningly sweet, sweeter even than the fizzy drinks that Dudley drank, occasionally leaving a drop or two of sweetness in the base of the bottles for Hari to savour when he took out the bins. “Today will be a big day for you, turning 11 of all things. My little Dudderkins has grown so quickly!” Hari bit back his laughter: his cousin had certainly grown, if the chair vanishing beneath his immense buttocks was anything to go by. “Boy! That bacon had better not burn, you know Dudley doesn’t like his bacon crispy. Don’t you dare ruin his day!” Hari nodded in assent, flipping the bacon off the pan and onto a plate, a greasy mound of pinkish strips for a greasy mound of pinkish attitude. Too late, Hari tried to stop the thought, but a snigger escaped his lips.

Spittle flecked from Vernon’s mouth, time seemed to freeze as the family all turned to glare at Hari, who wished he could shrink to the size of a mouse and scurry away. Hari winced as Vernon’s chair scraped backwards with enough force to scar the floorboards, the floor creaking as Vernon’s weight redistributed, straining the floor as he stalked towards Hari. A monstrous shadow fell upon Hari’s back as he cowered further into himself, shoulder curling inward; a meaty hand slapping over his own, grasping the empty frying pan, still smoking from the bacon juices burning against the residual heat from the stove. An abrupt crack snapped through the air as one hand pulled backwards and the other bent backwards the way no wrist ever should; the almighty shuddering crash of stainless steel on bone ensued, a tune of hissing and scorched flesh, heavy breathing and soft whimpering, and cruel, cruel laughter.

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James paced his cell, streams of freezing fog rippling past the bars and through him. After 10 years of pacing the same track, the flagstone had sunk where his feet had scraped upon them, and even the stones closest to the bars where the annual cleaning would scrub were tinged a rusty brown, remnants of the blood scratched from his soles, remnants of the scars that littered his broken body. 10 years had aged him more than a lifetime would age some wizards, his mangled bones looking more like an elderly wizard than a man of barely 31: since he lost everything, his youthful beauty had fled too. Even his arrogance was faded, for how can you be a smartarse when your wife is dead, and your son snatched from you by the one supposed to have protected you?

Matted hair hung across his face as he sat, his tailbone cutting into the icy stones that caressed his back with cold malice. His son, his Hari, taken from him. That bastard, that stupid fucking old man, he took him away. Because of him, Lily was dead. Because of him, his friends, his Marauders were scattered, pitted against each other; Sirius in Azkaban, a mere three floors beneath him- so close and yet so utterly untouchable, his best friend kept so because the bastard knew that would hurt him more than any punishment the Demontors could ever inflict. Sirius and Remus had just begun the first tender brushes at romance before Sirius was snatched away from him. The bastard had told the entire wizarding world that Sirius had killed Peter, that Sirius had betrayed the Potters: as if James’ best friend would ever betray him, as if Sirius would ever hurt a hair on any of the Marauder’s heads. They were brothers, bound by love and mischief and that little something that nobody can explain.

But James knew. 10 years of being trapped in Azkaban, of having the entire wizarding world think him dead, of having the smug bastard visit him once a month, like clockwork, to tell him of the shit his darling Hari was being put through. James was so close to snapping, to picking up his wand and slicing away that cords that bound him to life, if this trapped existence could be called living. The scars that slashed across his filthy skin were only the tip of the iceberg, only the very lightest glance at the agony that gaped inside of him, a cavernous maw, eager to eat away his life spirit, a maw that only dared open when the bars were first locked, when James first realised that everything he loved was gone, and all of it was the fault of a man he thought loved him, a man he blindly trusted to protect him and his family. Fat teardrops raced down his cheeks, pooling in the hollows of his cheekbones, more emaciated than gaunt from the near-total lack of food he received. Trails of grime lightened as James’ tears washed away, strip by strip, the filth covering his face, and drop by drop his tears plopped onto his knees, washing away dots of filth that caked his knees.

Just then, like clockwork, the clicking of heeled, dragonhide boots echoed down the hallway, followed by the rustling of linen across the dusty cobbles. He was coming, coming to rest on the wooden chair outside the cell, coming to prop himself up on the grey pillows, the same shade as his hair, and peer down his nose, over those half-moon glasses, into James’ haunted eyes. Then he’d talk, starting with the events around Hogwarts that month, how he’s preparing the school for his son, his precious Hari, to walk a lethal path beside the rest of the Gryffindors, corrupted to put loyalty to him before loyalty to each other and their morals, how the Dursleys are shaping his boy into the perfect, gullible shell for him to fill with the perfect combination of obedience, blind loyalty and anger. James would never rise, never stir; a huddled mound of bones encasing a broken heart, each word a knife driven into him, shattering his heart further and further, until the pieces simply couldn’t be mended.

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Hari awoke hours later, locked in his cupboard under the stairs, in the pitch darkness he was used to, with the aching body and sticky feeling of dried blood he could never quite get used to. No matter how often he was told he deserved his beatings- that he was a freak, scum, that he was what was wrong with the world- he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t deserve to be treated like shit. That someone, somewhere, cared about him. And that’s what kept him going, more than anything else. That hope; that out there was someone who loved him, who wanted him. Hari didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, until he was sure there was nobody left in the house. He had no doubt the Dursleys would have left him behind for Dudley’s birthday visit to the zoo even if he hadn’t have been unconscious, so it was hardly surprising when Hari heard no sound other than his only breathing, a rattle in his chest. He picked up the bobby pin he kept hidden under his cot and made quick work of the lock. The Dursleys never thought to change the locks on any of their doors, and Hari could pick them all with ease, though none more so than the cupboard door. Within seconds, the door clicked open, and Hari crawled out.

The light blinded him for a second, such a stark contrast from the dingy cupboard, where light didn’t dare to enter. Wobbling, Hari stood, and began to shuffle towards the kitchen, planning to wash his wounds and clean the blood from his clothes and the one blanket he owned, stuck to his back. Hari was dreading having to pull it off his wound- though he remembered nothing after the godawful clanging of the frying pan meeting his back, the agony and the blanket made it clear that he was picked up and thrown upon his cot once the beating was over, then locked and left behind, forgotten about as usual. Hari tried to turn, the wet cloth in his hands sending rivulets of warm water trickling down his wrists, stinging as they channeled down the sliced skin, hidden beneath his sleeves. He winced, the pain a reminder of what he had succumbed to, the hope he was slowly losing; and a reminder of the pain to come when he peeled the blanket away from his back.

Hari stumbled upstairs, turning on the shower as hot as he could handle, and stepping under the cascade of water, a strangled hiss escaping his mouth as the water scraped down his back, the raw wound feeling as though it was being whipped, or scrubbed with steel wool. Alone, his world a void of pain- pain now and pain to come- Hari began to sob. Great, fat tears fell from his eyes, mingling with the water of the shower, the sound of his crying muffled by the sound of falling water. Tears blurred his vision as he tried to turn, tried to peel the blanket from his back, so Hari shut his eyes, not wishing to see the damage that had been inflicted on him, and yanked.

Hari couldn’t restrain the scream that erupted from his mouth as the blanket fell to the tiles, softening with water and the new flow of blood pouring from the dent in his back, the shattered bones protruding from his skin, the agony indescribable. Hari screamed, a terrible wail of sheer pain and terror, betraying the perfect normality the Dursleys built around their house, a scream that even the neighbours heard.

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Arabella Figg looked up to the window where the sound entered her house, panic swarming her; she leapt into her fireplace and with a flick of her wrist she was gone, Flooing towards the one woman she knew would listen.


	2. The body of the soldier tells the story of the war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hari's life is in jeopardy, and Arabella, Minerva and Madame Pomfrey must try to save him from the house he's trapped in and the cruelty he shouldn't have to endure.

Professor McGonagall was there, clasping Arabella’s shaking hand in her own. A crack, a flash, and the pair stood on the manicured lawn of number 4, Privet Drive. Arabella ran ahead, slamming into the door, knocking it down with a force that couldn’t just be from her bony shoulders. Minerva strode behind her, purposeful but not unafraid of what she may find.   
“Hari? Hari, it’s Mrs Figg, where are you?”   
No answer. A sense of dread began to fester inside McGonagall, her steps becoming more hurried. “The shower is running, Arabella; he must be upstairs in the bathroom!” Arabella bound up the stairs, her movements distinctly feline, as Minerva followed.

The bathroom door was shut, but not locked; water was dribbling from underneath the door, and the only sounds from within the room were those of water. Minerva swept aside the curtains, clutching the bloodsoaked figure on the floor while Arabella turned off the shower and pulled towels from the rack to the floor, attempting to mop up some of the water. The pair stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the frail child dripping blood and water onto their robes as Minerva held him close, whispering words of comfort to the boy as they walked out of the bathroom, out of the house, and to Arabella’s home. Minerva laid him upon the table, a skeleton of shattered bones and dreams, and vanished as quickly as she appeared, offering a stiff nod to Arabella by way of instruction before she left, a crack and a flash sending the cats in the house running away from the space she had been standing.

Arabella stroked the hair away from the boys face, revealing a jagged scar occupying his whole forehead, a mimicry of the forked tongues of lightning that ravaged the earth when the sky was displeased, raw and starkly pale against his tawny skin. One of the cats jumped onto the table, sniffing at the boy, before licking his forehead and rubbing his face against the boy’s. The cat jumped down, appeased, and Arabella wet a cloth at the sink, patting at the blood dribbling across the boy, trying to find the source of the bleeding, the boy’s face staring at the ceiling, unseeing and unfeeling, a ghost.

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Minerva McGonagall was a force to be reckoned with, and no more so than when her maternal instincts had been awakened. She stormed into the hospital wing at Hogwarts, school of witchcraft and wizardry, seeking the only witch she trusted with the task she had at hand. The doors slammed behind her, announcing her furious arrival to the wards: two students lying in beds looking up with surprise, curious about what caused the sound. Their curiosity mingled with fear as they saw their Head of House with stormy eyes making no attempt at concealing the rage and determination contained within her. 

Madame Pomfrey stalked out of her office, ruffled and ready to give whoever had disturbed her wards a piece of her mind; only to stop and stare when she saw who had caused such a ruckus. “Minerva? Come into my office,” a flick of her wand, and the door shut behind them, a whispered muffliato and nobody would be privy to their discussion, despite the curious attempts of the students outside. “What is the meaning of this disturbance, Minerva? Surely you could have tried to be subtle.” Minerva silenced her with a glare.

“There isn’t time, Poppy. I need you to come with me, there’s no time to brief you; we need you.” Poppy’s eyes widened at that, a million scenarios racing through her mind as she picked a dragonhide bag off her desk, filled with any and all medical supplies she might need, and grasped Minerva’s arm. A flash, a crack, and the pair was gone. The anti-apparation wards of Hogwarts mean nothing to Minerva McGonagall, the most formidable witch the Wizarding World has ever seen.

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The air in Arabella’s apartment cracked, and Minerva appeared, a second witch in tow. Arabella flashed a grateful glance towards Minerva, who barely noticed; focused on the limp figure stretched across the table and the witch bowed over his body, eyebrows furrowed. Poppy waved her wand over the child, wincing as her diagnostic spell lit up the room, angry reds and feverish yellows casting a sickly glow throughout the house. She turned, looking at Minerva- who was leaning against Arabella, her face unreadable- and gave a terse nod. Hari could be saved, but it would be a long, slow process, and he needed to be somewhere safe for the healing to be undertaken. Arabella looked to Minerva, a question in her eyes: Minerva nodded, a heaviness in her head and sadness in her eyes.

Arabella’s body began to shrink and fold into itself, a spread of fur garnishing her body as her feline form emerged. She jumped onto the table and curled into the boy’s chest, stepping lightly on his broken body, fearful of causing any further pain. She curled into a ball, purring loudly, sending warmth through the boy- since her magical core was locked, she couldn’t use her magic to calm him- and did all she could using the feline form that Minerva had helped her draw from within herself to restore whatever sense of sanity she could to the boy. Minerva looked upon them, boy and the Burmilla cat; both victims of the cruelty of the muggle world, while being used by the Wizarding World for their own selfish gains. Minerva looked to Poppy, eyes locking, as the two witches saw the pity in each other’s eyes; Poppy reaching out to stroke the unruly black hair on the boy’s head, Minerva stroking the soft fur on Arabella’s back. 

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The Dursley’s arrived home, the back seat of their car sticky from Dudley spilling one of his 3 ice-creams on his lap, and stopped with a screech as a woman advanced towards them, coming from the open door of their house. Vernon sat there and blinked, his face turning a dark shade of red, veins popping out from his neck; while Petunia quickly locked the car. Dudley hadn’t even noticed the tension that had filled the car, his whole mind absorbed in devouring the massive bar of caramel chocolate his parents had bought him at the zoo. Before he could take another bite, the car shook; his parents screamed and the windows shattered, glass exploding outwards, coating the driveway in a layer of iridescence. That, made Dudley look up, and see the woman standing in front of where the windscreen used to be, glaring at his parents hard enough to make him shrink into the corner of the backseat and cower from the fuming figure.

“Vernon Dursley! You truly are the worst kind of muggle.” The verbal lashing, sharp and dangerous, began, “And Petunia! I had at least some hope for you, being Lily’s sister. But you’re both rotten, rotten to whatever core it is you muggles have!” Vernon’s face grew redder by the second, his veins looking as though they were going to burst out the side of his neck and flail around like a hose turned on full-blast; Petunia at least had the decency to look ashamed. 

Vernon’s livid sputtering finally formed words. “What is this madness?! How dare you speak to me, you… you freakish devil-woman!” Petunia flashed a warning glance to her husband, which was promptly ignored, “Get out of my house!” Minerva took that as an invitation to pace forward, her hands resting on the bonnet of the mutilated car, close enough for the Dursleys to see the hurricane raging in her eyes. Vernon shrank back into his seat, Petunia quivering beside him, Dudley pressed as far into the leather seats in the back as his pudgy body would allow him. “What do you want from me?” a weak attempt at bravado, not from courage but arrogance that his normalcy made him superior to the powerful, fuming figure that kept him in her sights.

Minerva snarled, her hands claw-like as she grabbed the car door, flicking the lock and ripping the door open in a fraction of a second. “How. Dare. You. Hurt. Hari.” 

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Arabella watched the scene unfold from her kitchen window, fighting her every instinct that screamed at her to run to her, to run to Minerva, to pull her back from these muggles- not to protect the muggles but to protect the woman she loves from the repercussions. Poppy clicked her tongue at the woman, her silhouette casting a shadow across the boy she was working on, stabilising him and preparing him for the sudden violence of apparation. Arabella turned at the noise, seeing the blanket of shade she was casting, obstructing Poppy’s view, and slunk over to the front door instead. She was out of her depth with Hari the way he was, spread across the table, pale and breathing so shallow, a shell of what he should be.

It would be so easy to blame Voldemort and be done with it. If Voldemort hadn’t come for Hari’s parents, hadn’t murdered them in the icy chill of Halloween eve, Hari wouldn’t be lying on her kitchen bench, bloody and wounded, from the cruelty others inflicted upon him and that he’d done unto himself, believing himself deserving of the suffering. If Voldemort hadn’t have murdered James and Lily, then Hari wouldn’t be so malnourished his bones protruded, wouldn’t be wearing torn and oversized clothes from the massive brute that broke his bones. But things are never that simple. If it hadn’t have been Hari, it would’ve been the Longbottom heir- but if it weren’t for the prophecy, it would have been neither.

Arabella’s thoughts wandered, a single tear trickling down her cheek as she was once more reminded of the cruelty of both worlds; where she was shunned from both. Even in her reverie she gazed at her partner, thrashing the muggles with words of rage, lashing tongues ripping into their minds the same way their fists ripped into Hari. She knew that Minerva’s screams were less for the Dursleys as they were for her- for letting the boy go to them, letting Dumbledore send him to a house she knew would be hellish. As much as she knew Hari’s scars were not her fault, Minerva still felt the throbbing blows of guilt, as did Arabella. After all, she lives next door to Hari. If anyone should have prevented this, have got him out of there, it was her.

But blame is never so simple.

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“Mummy, Daddy, make her go away!” Dudley’s scared, but still obnoxious, voice piped up from the back. It seemed to him like hours of the robed figure screaming bloody murder at the cowering figures in the car. Dudley had no concept of how dangerous the woman could be, could not understand why his parents had taken the tirade so long. “Make her shut UP!”

Minerva was snapped from her tongue-lashing, and turned her focus to the boy who broke her rant. “And you must be Dudley,” a sneer, disgusted not at the child so much as what the parents had allowed him to become. “You’re right, it is time to take this inside. Get indoors, all of you.”

Dudley scurried out the door, his father’s door still thrown open in front of his, and ran inside through the open door. Vernon and Petunia, after seeing their son safely inside, began to unfold themselves from the car, keenly aware of the dangerous gaze Minerva kept them under, and followed behind Dudley. The door slammed behind them, Minerva’s footsteps echoing their own. As soon as she entered the light of the dining room, Vernon turned to face her, his confidence seemingly restored now that he was back in his own house. “And why are you still here? You heard my boy, get gone! We don’t want your kind here.”

“Mark my words, Vernon Dursley. This will not be the last time you see me.” a hissed warning, whispering threats of the fate they’d secured themselves the second they laid a hand on Hari. “You will rue the day you dared to hurt Hari Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I'm not too happy with this chapter. It just doesn't read right to me in my head. The next chapter has the next plot point, and this was more of an important filler to make sure it's not too fast-paced, I guess. Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy it!


	3. Refuge may be found even in chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva and Arabella explain to Hari that the Dursleys are dickheads and what really happened with his parents, but kinda overload him a little

Hari woke in an unfamiliar room, the evening light casting an orange glow across the room where he lay. His eyes widened, mind racing: where the devil was he? The room was empty as far as he could tell, pillows beneath his back: his back? Surely… he couldn’t be lying on his back, not after that strike, not without agony. There was no pain, nothing. Hari spent more than a minute wondering if he was dead before the door creaked open and a slim figure peeked through, the figure familiar.

“Mrs Figg?”

The figure gasped and ran towards him, scooping Hari into her arms, her face pressed into Hari’s hair, muffling the unmistakable sound of sobs. “Hari, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed into his hair, holding him tightly against her chest. “I heard you scream and… I had no idea it- no, they- were so cruel!” Hari leaned into the embrace, just as much for Mrs Figg’s sake as his own, his own tears beginning to fall. 

“Mrs Figg, where are we?” he whispered, his voice so very weak.

She lifted her face from his head and ran her fingers through his hair, stroking the unruly nest of black hair perched upon Hari’s head. “Somewhere safe,” she replied, “Somewhere they can never hurt you again.”

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James sat, curled in the corner of his cell, tracing words through the grime coating his legs, letters dancing across his hazel skin. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, head resting on the unforgiving stone walls, tears beginning to fall. The early rays of dawn began to creep past the bars of his cell, painting the stone in hues of purple, red and blue, the only semblance of beauty remaining in his dolorous life.

I love you, Hari. Happy birthday, my son.

Every year, from dawn until dusk, on the 31st of July, he thought with such ferocity- hoping that his boy would know that the one who loved him most was still here, was thinking of him, was desperately wishing he could be there. Tracing words on his skin, praying, desperately hoping that somehow, Hari would see. As long as there is magic in the world, there is hope, and James refused to let go of this last kernel of hope.

That bastard, that power-hungry narcissist, would arrive tomorrow; the first day of every month was a day of torment for James, a reminder that even once one power-hungry villain is usurped from their position of terror, another will quickly take their place. The difference with this villain was that his cunning manipulations had fooled the whole wizarding world into believing him not a cruel dictator, but a benevolent leader; even James had trusted the man, believed his intentions to be good and kind, and embraced the man’s ‘help’ without any reservations. How easily trust can be shattered, like the broken body of his wife splayed across the floor, snapping the chains of reason inside all those affected.

He hoped the Dursley’s would remember Lily’s love for Hari on his birthday, and at least pass on the well-wishes that they knew Lily would be thinking from beyond the grave. Vernon was a xenophobic pig when it came to wizarding folk, but James knew that Petunia’s love for her sister rivalled her hatred for magic, and hoped that love would shine through.

As the trickles of dawn ceased to decorate his stone cage, James stood from his slumped state, stretching his aching limbs, and began to fold in upon himself. In a matter of seconds, a frail deer stood in the cell, steam puffing in small spurts from his nose. The deer’s figure was a shadow of the majesty it used to be, bones protruding from skin, coat lacking luster or any signs of health. Just like the person the deer stood in the place of, Prongs was dying.

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Hari gazed up at Mrs Figg, her tightly pulled back hair glowing orange in the setting sun, framed by the window facing the horizon. Through her tears, she had told him how she found him, with the help of someone she knew was trustworthy. Hari was curious at the mention of this other person, and had said as such, “I didn’t know you had any friends, Mrs Figg! I thought you were always by yourself.” Arabella could do nothing but laugh at the child’s naivety.

“I don’t have many friends, Hari, but Minerva is a good enough friend to make up for that.” This answer seemed to appease the boy, as he smiled up at her and lay quietly, waiting for Mrs Figg to resume her tale. Just as Arabella opened her mouth to resume her story, the door creaked open once more, and two pairs of eyes flashed towards the source of the sound. Hari shook a little in his cocoon of blankets, unsure of the identity of this newcomer but wanting to trust Mrs Figg’s promise that he was safe.

“Hari… Hari Potter?”

The figure stepped through the doorway, revealing a gnarled woman with iron in every line of her body, but eyes surprisingly soft and cautious, looking at the boy with unmistakable concern. Arabella stroked Hari’s hair one last time, then crossed the room to a chair sitting beneath the window, allowing her presence to be felt, but not imposed upon the pair. Hari’s eyes followed Mrs Figg until she sat down, then his gaze flicked back to the woman, standing in the shadow of the door, still looking at him with a searching gaze. “Are you Minerva?” asked Hari, his voice quavering a tad, his curiosity overtaking his fear.

Minerva flicked a glance to Arabella, who smiled in reassurance. “Yes Hari. My name is Minerva McGonagall.” She took a step towards the boy, who struggled to sit up in his bed. Minerva tutted towards the boy, seeing the pain flash across his face. “It may be painless to lay, Mr Potter, but it will not be so to sit up. Remain lying down while you heal.” Hari obliged, pondering the title Minerva had given him. Mr Potter felt far too fancy for someone like him. Minerva watched the boy as he lay, deep in thought, and wondered what he was thinking of- it was not as though the boy had any shortage of things to think of.

Hari realised the woman was staring at him, and thought she must be expecting him to say something. “Did my uncle and aunty give me away?” This did not seem to be what she expected, as her face showed surprise, and rage darted across her face to remain in her stoney eyes, no longer soft in appearance. Hari shrunk back into his blankets, fear clouding his face. Minerva noticed this, and took a deep breath to get herself back under control. “Not quite, Hari. But how they treated you was wrong, I need you to understand that. Children should never be hurt like that.” Hari nodded, not quite agreeing. The Dursleys treated him how he deserved, he knew that. It was his fault that he was a freak, it was his fault that his parents were dead. He was a monstrosity, and he knew that; that’s why he was beaten so often, and why scars of his own making dotted his body. 

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Arabella left the room after some time, seeking out a warm drink to soothe her dry throat, and walked into the kitchen to see Poppy standing there, chamomile tea in hand. “I made this for you. Figured after all that, you’ll need it.” she gestured towards the room where Hari and Minerva remained, deep in conversation, sadness in her eyes. Arabella nodded, deeply grateful for such a kindness. It still took her a while to adjust to witches and wizards being kind to her- she was far too used to being cast aside as a broken container, useless to all and unable to contain even her own magical core. After all, there was something inherently wrong with being a Squib in magical society.

Poppy watched the string of emotions cross Arabella’s face, and smiled sadly at the woman. “I know you’re not used to basic decency Arabella, but really? You’re with Minerva. Anyone loved by Minerva is respected by me.” Arabella flushed, embarrassed that her feelings were so easily read, but grateful that Poppy understood. Dipping her head slightly, she thanked the witch and took the tea, sipping quietly at the delightful warm liquid. 

“How’s Hari?”

“He has no pain while lying, but winced in pain when trying to sit. He’s confused and a little afraid- disconcerted, more like- but he trusts me and believes that he is safe here.”

Poppy nodded, relieved. Truth be told, she’d never seen an injury on that scale- even the quidditch players falling off their brooms didn’t hold a candle to the malice in the gaping maw of Hari’s shattered back- and her fear was that she couldn’t heal him. Poppy turned once more to the kettle and poured another two cups of tea, busying herself with the mundane but no less essential job of caring for all of her patients. As Arabella stood, leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping her tea, Poppy picked up the two cups she had brewed and began to walk towards the room where Minerva and Hari were. She felt Arabella’s eyes following her, and glanced backwards to see the woman reaching out as though to grasp her shoulder. 

“Maybe you should leave that to me. Hari was tentative enough with Minerva, I don’t know how he’ll react to another stranger.” Poppy conceded, passing the cups to Arabella, who placed her own cup down on the counter-top. Poppy watched as Arabella trod lightly towards the doors, walking with obvious feline fluidity, and pushed the door open with her elbow.

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Minerva sat on the edge of Hari’s bed, mid-sentence as Arabella walked in. “Madame Pomfrey made tea,” she said, her eyes lingering on the pair. “Chamomile tea.” Minerva looked grateful, and took a cup, sipping gently, as Arabella crossed the room to Hari’s side and held the drink for him to sip from. Hari’s eyes were shining, moist from tears- concern stabbed through Arabella’s countenance and she squeezed the boy’s hands, a silent gesture conveying that it was going to be okay, that she was sorry. It didn’t take a witch to know why the darling boy was crying.

“Mrs Figg, did you know how my mum and dad really died?”  
She gazed down at him, misery painting every feature of her face. “Yes Hari. The whole Wizarding World knew.” Minerva tutted, casting a reproachful look at Arabella. She hadn’t yet told the poor boy about his fame, only told him the truth about his parents that she mistakenly assumed he had known.

“The whole world knew?” he turned to Minerva for confirmation, who nodded. “Why did the whole world know, but I didn’t?”

Arabella moved to sit next to Minerva, still stroking the boy’s hair as Minerva’s arm wrapped around her waist. “When your parents died, a man named Dumbledore told the world that your parents had asked him to protect a document, their will, were they to pass away. He produced such a note, and it was signed by your mother and father- the Wizarding World had no reason to deny the last will and testament, and Dumbledore is a very influential wizard in our society. He was, and is, widely trusted by magicfolk.”

“Why did my parents make a will? Did they know they were going to die?”

Minerva squeezed Arabella’s wrist, and Arabella allowed Minerva to answer this question. “Hari, your parents died in the middle of a war. They did not know they were going to die, but they knew there was a very high chance. They did everything they could to protect themselves and you, and their will was one such way to try and protect you.” Hari nodded, processing all this new information. Minerva continued, “You will have all your answers, Hari; but we do not want to overwhelm you. How you were treated by the Dursleys was wrong, and how they lied about your parents was wrong. We cannot undo how you were treated, but we can promise you safety here, if you want it. You should get some sleep- and think over my offer. You have a home here, if you’d like it.”

The two women stood, hand in hand, and Arabella slid her other hand from the top of Hari’s ruffled hair. Hari was silent, his eyes shut but not asleep, just thinking. They left the room, Arabella pausing at the doorway and turning back to gaze at the boy, whose eyes had opened and were watching the women leave. “Goodnight Hari,” she whispered, smiling at him. “Goodnight Mrs Figg,” he called back, as the door shut behind them.

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Inside the orange-lit room, Hari lay, pondering the information dump that had been laid upon him. The dappled orange glow was sliding down the walls as the sun slunk behind the horizon, receding and leaving the sky’s domain for the moon to dominate. Hari had always preferred the night- the moon seemed to call to him, beckoning for him to plunge into the indomitable darkness, the calm of the night sky. Sometimes he would sneak outside at night, when the Dursleys hadn’t locked his cupboard door, and he’d lay on the dew-covered grass and stare at the moon, watching as it traversed the inky depths of the inverted sea. Hari, propped up on two pillows by Minerva, to make it easier for him to look at her when she spoke, watched the sun set from his bed, rivulets of purple and pink dancing across the sky to herald the moon’s arrival.

Vernon had told him that his parents swerved in front of an oncoming truck, in a last attempt to be free of him. He’d always assumed it worked- after all, his parents were permanently free of the burden that was him. He said that Hari was dumped on their doorstep in the middle of the night, wrapped in the filthy blanket that Hari still slept under in his cot, in that dreaded cupboard, that Vernon wanted to send the freak- for he was never even called boy by uncle Vernon, only freak- to the local orphanage, or better yet leave him for the rats. It was only Petunia’s sense of obligation, of duty to her late sister, that they took him in. Obviously, that sense of obligation to Hari’s mum didn’t extend far enough to treat Hari as though he was human. Hari had never questioned the story, having no reason to- the jagged scar across his forehead, like a forked tongue of lightning lashing across his entire forehead seeming proof enough that some dreadful accident with shattering glass had occurred.

That was why Hari was treated so bad. His parents had hated him so much that they’d rather kill themselves in a car ‘accident’ than to live with him. It was only logical, it was his own fault that his parents were dead. If he’d never been born, they’d be alive and happy. Of course he deserved to be treated like shit, he was practically a murderer! But this, all he’d learnt today- only one story could be true. Hari was scared and confused- he was so used to hating himself, to believing himself to be the worst person on the planet, that he struggled to believe the notion that everything wasn’t his fault, that his parents were murdered by a cruel lunatic. And all this talk of witches and wizards; surely he’d misheard. Magic wasn’t real, it was just a story made up by adults who didn’t want to live in the world they did live in. 

The moon hovered in the sky, its pale face casting a gentle, silver glow upon Hari’s room. He gazed up into its light, and remembered- it was his 11th birthday today. He supposed it didn’t really mean anything: after all, he’d never celebrated his birthday before, so why would this year be any different? Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. Every other child he knew celebrated their birthdays, or at the very least had someone other than themselves remember that it was their birthday. That pang of disappointment quickly morphed into something much crueler, as Hari began to sob. He didn’t deserve his birthday celebrated, he thought to himself, as tears rolled down his face.


	4. There is peace in the light of the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva and Arabella are cute af, and Hari is a mess, the poor darling. The explicit Dumbledore-bashing begins here. If anyone is wondering, Arabella's animagus form is a Burmilla cat, and yes I will be explaining how she, a Squib, is able to perform this magic in a later chapter.

A deer leaned against the unforgiving stone of a prison cell, quivering in the pale glow of the moon. The night was nearing its end, the moon shining its final rays upon the cervine figure as it finally stood still, hooves scratched from pacing in circles on the flagstones. The deer had not been bothered by the cloaked villains that floated past, a blissful night spent free of physical harm and only the whirlwind contained within its mind- despite the body of a deer, the mind inside is starkly James’ and occupied only by thoughts of his son: how Hari’s 11th birthday had passed without his father by his side.

The dementors grew closer, preparing to slide his morning tray of a tasteless meal through the door. They used to slide it under the bars, but James had never shown any interest in trying to escape and over time the foul creatures had begun opening his cell door and entering the cell to place his tray on the floor. Today was no different, as the clanking of keys caused his ears to prick up and turn towards the dementor hovering outside his cell with a tray of food. Today appeared to be a stale bread roll, some less-than-appetising meat: though what kind of meat mattered not as James wouldn’t touch the stuff, and a small bowl of gruel. The dementor slipped into his cell, leaving the open door unguarded behind him, paying no interest to the deer standing next to the open door, frozen in place:

The tray clattered as it was placed on the floor, and the deer sprung to life.

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Minerva awoke from her slumber, marveling at the warmth at her side before realising Arabella lay curled beside her. She reached a tender hand out to stroke her lover’s cheek, and Arabella murmured in her sleep, the happiness in her sleeping form clear to Minerva’s gaze. It had been a long time since she’d been able to sleep next to the woman she loved, and just as Minerva grew snappy from the distance, Arabella grew despondent. It was just a pity that something so tragic had bought them time together- speaking of which, Minerva decided it was time to check on Hari and make sure he was sleeping soundly.

Pushing back the blankets, Minerva sprung from the bed and landed perfectly on her feet, grabbing a pale gold robe from behind her and slipping her feet into emerald green slippers adorned with snitches. She padded down the corridor to the room where Hari lay and opened the door, slowly enough to avoid it creaking and thus waking the child. Minerva looked into the little room, and was greeted with the sight of an empty room and an open window.

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Hari lay on the dew-coated grass, his body sore and soaked from the morning dew and the residual ache of climbing out the window in his healing state, and gazed up at the sky. Rays of pastel orange began their sunrise dance across the sky, clouds softening in the pale light. An artwork, a beautiful performance of colour and light- the sky was showing off what it could do for anyone to watch. Sunrise was usually Hari’s sign to get back into his cupboard, lest he be discovered; but Mrs Figg said he was safe here, and he hoped that meant he was allowed to watch the sunrise instead of fleeing when the first orange beam crept into the sky.

Hari lay there, seconds turning into minutes, minutes growing into an hour, and the sky danced for him.

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Minerva ran straight to the window, panic swamping her- where was he? She looked out the window, searching for the thin frame and mop of black hair than identified Hari, and saw nothing but grass and the final colours of sunrise. She ran to Arabella and shook her awake, “Hari’s gone!” and ran out of the room before Arabella had the chance to get out of bed. Arabella quickly grabbed her pale purple robe and slid into her cat slippers and chased after Minerva, panic rising in her like bile.

They ran straight to the kitchen- Hari wasn’t there. The library? Hari wasn’t there. The bathroom? Still no Hari, but Arabella paused her searching to occupy it for a minute. Minerva kept running around the house, looking into all the rooms and cupboards, searching for the boy, and finding nothing. As Arabella rejoins her, they check Hari’s room once more- only to see a wet figure shutting the window.

“Hari? Where have you been?!”

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Hari spins around, fear in his eyes, to Minerva’s cry. The two women stand in the doorway, panic written all over their features. “I’m sorry! I just-” Minerva pulled the boy to her chest and nearly suffocated him in her embrace. “Never scare me like that again Hari,” she whispered, clinging tightly to his tiny frame. “I’m sorry Minerva, I just wanted to see the sunrise” The woman was crying, Hari realised- but despite the tears in her eyes she chuckled at that. “Call me Minnie, Hari. There’s no need to be formal. And next time, come and wake us, and we’ll sit and watch the sunrise together.”

Minerva wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robe and stood, still holding Hari to her chest. His feet dangled, and Mrs Figg chuckled at the sight, holding the door open for Minnie and Hari to walk out of. “How about some breakfast?” Hari liked the two of them, but wasn’t sure how they’d like their breakfast, or even if they’d want bacon and eggs. “But… I don’t know how you like your breakfast!” he sputtered, “I can’t make breakfast without knowing what you like!”

Arabella and Minerva met each other’s eyes over Hari’s head and shared a concerned look. “You don’t have to cook for us Hari, we’re adults. It’s our job to cook for you.” Hari gazed up at Minnie, a confusing mix of emotions dancing across his face. “But, I’m no good for anything else than to do the adult’s jobs. That’s why I’ve always done them! Have I done something wrong?” Anger flashed across Minnie’s face and Hari paled, before Arabella quickly jumped in. “Hari, you’ve not done anything wrong. You’re very good at a lot of things, the Dursleys just didn’t want you to see that.” Hari turned his gaze to her, his eyes shining sea-green in the kitchen light. “I promise you Hari, you’ve done nothing wrong. How your aunt and uncle treated you was not normal- children aren’t supposed to do adult jobs. That’s why they’re called adult jobs.” Hari seemed soothed by Mrs Figg’s logic, and quietened.

Minerva sat the boy on the counter, stroking his hair as she let go, and strode to the pantry. “What would you like to eat, Hari?” Hari stared at them, confused. He’d never been allowed breakfast when the Dursley’s ate, and definitely never had a choice in food when he was allowed to eat. He told Minnie as such, who turned an unfortunate shade of red, and began pulling a plethora of boxes and tins from the pantry. Arabella watched her frenzied state, amused by her partner but concerned- if she reacted this violently each time Hari spoke of his abuse, the poor boy would become just as afraid of her as he was of the Dursleys.

“Minerva, please. Your anger does not suit the audience.” Minerva snapped her head up to meet Arabella’s eyes, and saw the concern in them. Just like that, she realised- and the anger drained from her eyes. She was not any less angry, not by any means, but she had no right to show Hari the same anger as had been shown in the household he’d just escaped. “I’m sorry Hari.” She turned to Hari, and looked him in the eye, “I’m not angry at you, but at how you were treated. How cruel the Dursleys were to you makes my blood boil.” Hari nodded, understanding but still hesitant to agree that the Dursleys treated him any worse than he deserved.

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Prongs had never sprinted so hard in his life. Each footfall was a gunshot, each breath shuddered- the stag ran for his life. He ran through dementors, their ashy complexion paling as the terrified stag ran at them. He ran down the corridor, towards the open window, ready to leap-

And the deer fell into the unforgiving maw of a raging sea.

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Minerva had since returned to Hogwarts, leaving Arabella to care for Hari. Arabella knew the layout of Minerva’s house as though it was her own- after all, whenever she wasn’t at her home in Privet Drive she was here. She and Hari had spent the last two nights lying on the lawn, watching the night sky and sleeping under the stars, waking in time for the sunrise. Arabella had noticed a change of composure in the boy: Hari seemed more calm and present, and less fearful of the new environment.

Hari still seemed uncomfortable when it came to cooking, and Arabella was at a loss. She enjoyed cooking for the boy, but suspected his discomfort came from being accustomed to not cooking the meals. 3 days after Hari had woken- 6 days since his rescue- Arabella decided she’d ask the boy if he wanted to help her cook the evening meal.

She didn’t expect him to look so terrified when she asked.

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Hari sat in the grass beneath his windowsill, rocking back and forwards- he was in a spot where he couldn’t be seen from the window, and was still a little breathless from his panicked dash from the kitchen. Mrs Figg had only asked him if he wanted to help, but when he’d seen the giant cast-iron frying pan in her hand, he couldn’t help but panic. It was almost identical to the one with which he was beaten, and looking at it he could almost see his blood dribbling from it, hear the crack of his bones shattering, his screams ringing in his head- he’d had no choice but to run. He could hear Mrs Figg calling him, but his voice was stripped from him, terror tearing his words away.

He ceased his rocking as he heard his bedroom door open, and lay his head against the brick wall beneath the windowsill, curling himself into the smallest ball he could, desperately trying to hide within himself. Tears began to trickle down his face, moisture pooling onto his lap as he sat, his head against his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs, holding himself together. He couldn’t hold the tears back and they fell with increasing ferocity, a hurricane erupting from his eyes, the gasping sobs following suit, his bony body shaking with the force of his sobbing.

A white cat, its coat dusted with grey at the tips of each hair, bounded down from the windowsill and rubbed itself against Hari’s legs. Between sobs, Hari released one of his hands from its clinging duty and reached down to stroke the cat’s soft head. The cat pushed its head firmly into Hari’s palm, and reached out to place a paw on his chest. Hari tentatively stretched his legs out to allow the cat to climb onto his lap, moving his legs as slowly as possible on the off chance that his movement would scare away his new friend. As soon as there was enough space, the cat leapt onto his lap and began to purr.

The boy and cat lay for hours, watching the sun slink behind the horizon. Hari’s hand rested on the back of the cat, while the cat continued to purr, sending warmth and calm through the boy, his tears having dried on his face. Hari’s stomach grumbled, the sound startling the cat, and it stretched, arching its back and jumping off the boy. Hari watched, sadness and disappointment mingling as he watched his new friend walk away- only to watch in surprise as the cat seemed to grow and unfold until it was not a grey-dusted cat standing before him, but Arabella Figg.

She extended her hand to Hari, who took her hand and allowed himself to be picked up and carried inside.

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Minerva sat in Dumbledore’s office, struggling to keep her composure as he dictated Hari’s previous address to her. “Mr H. Potter,” he read, pausing for her to write it down, “The cupboard under the stairs, Number 4, Privet Drive.” The green ink with which Minerva wrote seemed sharp as she wrote these words, her own anger flashing as the fact that Dumbledore had known all along.

“It’s a pity you missed his birthday, Minerva.” His voice was calm and gentle, though the stare he fixed her with was anything but. “Hogwarts is not known for missing its’ wards 11th birthday, you know.” Minerva nodded, biting back any response. It wouldn’t do to tell the Headmaster that Hogwarts also isn’t known to leave babies in abusive homes- though perhaps it was. After all, hadn’t Tom Riddle been left alone all these years, and look at the darkness he’d become? Minerva knew that Dumbledore couldn’t know that she had rescued Hari, the man would only send him back to those awful muggles. He was unfit to fill his role of Guardian, and she was unable to do a thing about it;

Yet.


	5. The eye of the storm is no less dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hari's an anxious wreck, but his new guardians are doing their best to make his new life as kind as possible. A bunch of familiar characters are introduced in this chapter and we'll begin to follow their stories too. I will admit, this chapter is more of a filler than plot driven, and I'm not too happy with it. But- the next one will be plot driven and good, I promise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay. Life has been absolutely wild, between school, relationships and my mum. I promise I'll try harder to keep the chapters regular now, but I am entering my last year of school and I have exams coming out my anus right now, so please don't be mad if I'm late on releasing chapters. I do promise that it won't be this long of a delay again.

The sun was fading behind the horizon as the broken body of a deer washed ashore. A young girl, her hair and skin akin to the silhouette of the horizon, played on that beach. Evening was the only time she could safely play without being attacked by those that menaced her, when her body melded with the darkness and revelled in the shelter it provided. She spotted the odd shape on the edge of the water and scampered over to investigate.

The curious child leaned over the deer, trying desperately to find its pulse- it was cold, but limp; and she knew that dead things entered rigamortis, where they became stiffer even than her will. She prayed, though not to any god, that the deer was still alive, that she could save it: after all, deer don’t just wash up onto the banks of the English Channel. After a few seconds with her hand on its chest, she was satisfied, and sprinted away towards the unit she lived in with her parents.

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Expletives exploded through the stone corridor as the old man rampaged, sparks flashing on the cobbles he stomped over. “It’s been 10 years! Why now, and how the FUCK,” he screamed, turning to the dementors who seemed to shrink away from the livid old man, “HOW THE FUCK DID YOU LET HIM ESCAPE!” The bellow echoed through the halls of Azkaban, landing neatly in the ears of a black dog curled in the corner of a cell, some three levels below the man. His ears perked up at the sound, curiosity breaking through the icy hopelessness that had been his companion for so long. Who had escaped, and how had they done it? Azkaban couldn’t be escaped from, and yet someone had done it. Dementors hovered in clusters outside the cells, seeming… nervous. It must have been someone important, to make these emotionless creatures waver for even a second in their merciless duty.

The dog sat up on its haunches, ears cocked; anything there was to hear, he wanted to hear it, and his canine form had far better hearing than human. The stone swallowed sounds here, the very atmosphere of the jutting fortress swallowing any hint of anything aside from misery. But, even still- his ears swivelled, following some otherwise untraceable sound up through the roof of his cell, up above those that stomped above him, up to the very top floor where no souls lingered, the cruelest haunt of Azkaban- if someone had escaped from the top floor of Azkaban, the wizarding world was surely in grave danger.

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Three figures, their complexion mingling with the growing darkness heralded by the sunset, ran towards the deer. Or rather, one small figure ran towards the deer, and the other two figures ran after their child. “Hermione!” they called after her, “Slow down, we can’t keep up!” But Hermione did not slow until she was tumbling into the sand next to the deer, placing her trembling hand on the deer’s chest, terrified that the pulse that had sent her running may not remain. The figures chasing Hermione appeared by her side, breathless from the reckless chase their daughter had sent them on, only to gasp at the deer slumped on the sand. They weren’t quite sure what they expected at the end of their daughter’s mad dash, but this sure wasn’t it.

Hermione gazed up at her parents, her eyes widening and glistening with silver tears. “Can you save him?” a whispered plea, and before they knew what they were doing, they’d picked up the broken body of the deer, following Hermione to their car. It was a long trip to the vet, and Hermione sat in the back, cradling the deer’s head in her lap, whispering words of encouragement, of hope; her mother begging her father to “Drive faster, drive faster!”

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A familiar crack sounded in the lounge room, and Minerva stepped out of thin air, a letter clutched tightly in her clenched fist. Two sets of footsteps approached her, one small and scampering, one eager but calm. Hari and Arabella burst into the room a moment later, the boy hiding behind Arabella until he saw the figure beside the couch; with a small cry of joy he leapt towards Minerva and wrapped himself around her waist. Minerva looked down, with a bemused look, and hugged the boy back, her rage abating as the boy seemed to melt in her embrace. Still hugging Hari, Minerva looked up to see her wife grinning at the pair, and she flashed her a look that said what’s stopping you?

Within seconds, Arabella had joined the embrace, and the trio began to giggle. Hari looked at Minerva in surprise, not expecting a sound like a giggle coming out of her stern mouth. Minerva looked at the boy’s perplexed face and began to laugh, guessing exactly why he was confused and finding it greatly amusing. Arabella, watching the pair’s faces, struggled to hold back the snorts of laughter, a noble endeavour but doomed to fail as Hari turned to her and asked in a voice filled with awe, “I didn’t know grown-ups could giggle?” Minerva laughed so hard that tears ran down her face, Arabella much the same.

After some deep breaths to compose herself, Minerva looked at Hari, the picture of solemnity with tear stains on her face, struggling to catch her breath from all the laughter, and promptly burst out laughing again.

After some 20 minutes of intermittent laughing fits, the women managed to compose themselves at last, and Minerva sat on the couch, pulling the letter from its hiding place in her robes where she’d stuffed it upon hearing the pattering of feet running towards her. “Hari,” she began, gazing into his eyes- a rich green, comparable to the leaves of the mighty oak tree, stretching higher than any of the denizens seeking shelter beneath its outspread limbs- “you’ve been accepted to study at Hogwarts.” Now was Hari’s turn to burst in giggles; after all, what sort of name was Hogwarts? But Minerva remained serious, though amused, and Hari quickly stopped his giggles and looked towards Minerva, waiting for her to continue.

“Hogwarts is a school, where young witches and wizards go to study magic.” Hari listened eagerly, a trembling mixture of fear and excitement. He could do magic, just like Minnie! “Young witches and wizards receive their acceptance letters on their 11th birthday. I thought it best to wait until you’d adjusted to your new home before I gave you your letter, but here it is.”

Minerva passed the boy an envelope, with green inked words reading Mr H Potter, Number 8 Napier Terrace, Islington. Hari flipped it over, and hesitated- he looked up at these people who in barely a week had grown more dear to him than the relatives he’d spent his life with- and asked them what was troubling his mind. “If… If I go to Hogwarts, will I lose you?” The pair shook their heads. “No, Hari. If you want it, this will always be your home.” Arabella smiled at him as she spoke, only for Minerva to interrupt, “Perhaps I should have mentioned. Hogwarts is where I work.” Hari’s face lit up, and he ripped open the envelope.

Dear Mr Potter,  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.  
Yours sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall, deputy Headmistress

Hari startled at the last sentence. “Deputy headmistress?” he asked, awestruck. “You don’t just work there, you’re second-in-command!” Minerva nodded, looking unusually solemn. Hari pulled out the list remaining in the envelope, and began to read through all the things he needed.

“Where do I buy all these things?” Hari paused a second, thinking, “and how do I buy them? I’ve got no money.” He looked at his feet, knowing full well that Minnie and Arabella would pay for them but feeling dreadful if he were to ask, and guilty of the financial burden he placed upon them. Minerva, however, was thinking the same thing, and took Hari’s hand in hers, Arabella grabbing the other. With a quick grin at Arabella, they disappeared with a crack.

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Prongs drew in a gasping breath, his cervine form shuddering as he exploded into coughs, his eyes yet unfocused. Unfamiliar white walls swam around him, 4 dark faces peering down at him jutting through the pallor- the faces just as unfamiliar as the room he lay in. One of the faces jerked to action and a flurry of motion surrounded him, his head tilted to expel the seawater, a stethoscope resting on his chest, and a child’s hand gently stroking one of his hind legs.

The coughing subsided and the stethoscope was removed as the vet continued to bustle around him, but the child’s hand did not leave his flank.

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Hari gazed up at the hulking stone structure, Minnie and Mrs Figg on either side of him, holding his hands. He craned his neck to see all the way to the top, where the word Gringotts was carved into the stone walls, above the wrought-iron window frames and leering gargoyles perched between them. All in all, Hari thought, this isn’t somewhere he liked very much at all. Minnie and Mrs Figg seemed unperturbed, so he supposed that meant it was safe, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Hari darling, we’re holding up traffic. Are you ready to go in?” Hari nodded, though he was most decidedly not ready, and the trio strode (albeit in Hari’s case, reluctantly) through the imposing doorway and into the marble-floored foyer, filled with the bustle of witches and wizards and the clinking of gold coins. Hari gazed around as his guardians steered him towards a clerk, marvelling at all the luxury in the building: gold-accented armchairs, golden statues, gold flecks in the floor- he was beginning to think he quite would like some gold of his own one day- until he was snapped to attention by Minnie’s pointed cough.

“Hari, this is Griphook.” Hari gazed up at the face watching him from behind a marble (and gold) pulpit. The creature- for Hari did not know how else to describe him- seemed to watch him with distaste, and he wondered what he had done to already sour Griphook’s opinion of him. 

“Good morning Griphook,” he said, trying not to sound nervous. “How do you do?”

The creature’s face now seemed to regard him with less distaste and more confusion. “I suppose I must answer that I am well, Mr Potter, though I am not inclined to ask how you are; you'd be obliged to give the same answer, and the conversation would waste precious time that I simply do not have to spare. Neither will I ask why you’re here, as wand-bearers only come here for one reason. I will show you to your vault- Professor McGonagall here has supplied your key. Follow me, all three of you.” Hari’s face must have shown his disheartenment- he was only trying to be polite, after all- as Mrs Figg rested her hand on his shoulder and leaned down to whisper “Don’t worry darling, that’s just goblins for you. They’re all grumpy creatures, but they do an excellent job at banking.”

Hari nodded and began to follow Griphook, reaching out to take his guardians’ hands once more.

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Whispers had trickled down the walls these past few days, and the pricked ears of the black dog sought them all out. Nobody knew who had escaped, but the mere thought that escape was possible had riled up all the denizens of Azkaban. After hearing yet another plot to break out of Azkaban, the dog tired of the foolish whispers of criminals and shifted back to his human form, limbs stretching out to form pale arms and legs dusted with black hair, and his head donned with a greasy mop of long, black hair. Sirius hated the feeling of the lank hair on the back of his neck, but human rights were never a priority in Azkaban and the man hadn’t showered in years.

Sirius reached for the shard of mirror that he kept hidden behind a loose slab of cobblestone, preparing to cut off the length of hair that irritated him so. He fumbled behind the cobblestone, grabbing the mirror only to have its jagged edges cut into his hand- he pulled his hand and the mirror out with a hiss and began sucking the blood out of the cuts on his finger.

He wasn’t expecting to see the half-moon glasses of Albus Dumbledore reflected in the mirror.


	6. To love another gives another way to break a heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hari meets Draco. Need I say any more?

Dumbledore paced his office, glasses strewn on his desk next to the mirror he’d taken from James those many years ago when the man was foolish enough to make him their secret keeper. He’d taken it out to dust it, deciding that it would be fitting to put a mirror of James’ on his wall above his pensieve to remind himself exactly how urgent the issue was. He just hadn’t got round to putting it on the wall yet.

Fawkes preened himself on his perch, used to Dumbledore’s pacing. The man had mastered the ‘evil villain plotting evil things’ look while pacing, and Fawkes didn’t care for it. The phoenix didn’t have much choice, as his bloodline was sworn to serve the Dumbledore family- and besides, Dumbledore hadn’t always shown this cruel streak. Fawkes was lost in musing, pondering the ways of the world that led him to be upon the perch in this room- when a feather was yanked from his tail by a certain angry man. Quite unsurprisingly, Fawkes screamed at Dumbledore and flew to the other side of the room, blood dripping from the gap in his tail, and cowered in an alcove too high for Dumbledore to reach.

Dumbledore, to his credit, did feel a shred of remorse. He hadn’t meant to be quite so rough. But his anger, his determination, and his plan- that was more important than a few drops of blood from a phoenix’s tail.

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Hari’s eyes were the size of the Galleons he was staring at. Minerva and Arabella stood just behind him in the door of the vault, a little surprised themselves at the sheer amount of gold. They knew the Potter fortune was huge, but weren’t quite prepared for the piles of gold in the small room. Griphook coughed, cutting through the air like a blade through silk. Hari snapped from his daze and turned to his guardians, unsure what exactly he was supposed to do.

“This is some of what your parents left you, Hari.”

Hari stared at Minerva, unable to compute the fact that his parents, who he’d always believed hated him more than death itself, had left him such an incredible sum of money. While this seemed pretty conclusive evidence that Minnie’s story was true, it’s very hard to unlearn years of conditioning, and Hari simply couldn’t process this influx of contradiction and conflict. The boy abruptly burst into tears.

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Prongs awoke to the warmth of the sun on his back, stretching out his legs in great pleasure of the warmth soaking into his coat, before jumping upright with the realisation that he wasn’t in Azkaban anymore. A child’s gasp beside him made him turn his head to see a child of charcoal with a mane of dark hair glowing in the sunlight sitting beside him. The child reached out her hand, and he touched his nose to it, knowing that this child was the one who had saved him. The memory of his mad dash, falling into the waves, waking in an office and a child stroking his hindquarters until he slept again hit him all at once and his knees buckled. The child cried out as he fell, reaching out to stop his fall- he landed on the ground with a thump, the girl’s arm beneath him.

Hermoine was relieved to see her new deer friend was alive. She had been so worried that he wouldn’t wake up at all. But his collapse sent her into a panic; she pulled her arm out from beneath him and ran for her parents.

Prongs watched as the child ran away and called after her, a low and keening cry, fearful of being abandoned so soon when he’d had no company for a decade.

Hermoine dashed through the door, her parents about to leave for work. “Mum, Dad! It’s the deer! He’s awake, but then he collapsed and I don’t know what to do!” Her parents didn’t really know either, but followed her out the door to see what they could do- perhaps they could clean the deer’s teeth? Dentists and vets weren’t especially similar, after all- when they heard the deer’s keening cry and knew, as only a parent would know, that the deer was keening for his child.

Even after Hermoine sat next to Prongs once more and stroked his back, the deer wouldn’t be comforted and just kept crying, a low and utterly dejected cry. Hermoine’s parents had left for work and the girl sat in their backyard, soaking in the sun next to the inconsolable deer, feeling her heart break a little more with each of his cries. Prongs began to tire and his cries grew ever weaker, ever more heartbreaking to the girl’s ears. Prongs finally fell asleep, leaning against the Hermoine’s knee as she stroked his back.

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Hari stepped out of Gringotts, Minnie and Mrs Figg on either side of him and a small cloth bag of gold coins clasped in one hand. He kept opening the drawstring and peeking in, checking to see that the money was real, was his; fully expecting it to disappear the second he took his eyes off it in some cruel trick. After about the 8th time opening the bag in the space of two minutes, Mrs Figg cleared her throat and suggested perhaps Hari keep the bag shut in case someone decided they’d rather they have that money than him. Hari jerked the bag closed, and didn’t open it again- the trio then began to walk down Diagon Alley.

Hari couldn’t stop himself gawking at all the colourful gimmicks that filled the shopfronts around him. Minnie and Mrs Figg didn’t feel the need to rush, so they let Hari gaze into every store he walked past, admiring everything he saw, asking question after question as to what things were used for. Finally, the trio arrived at Madam Malkin’s, and Minnie ushered Hari in.

Madam Malkin wasn’t expecting the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts to appear in her store without prior warning, and dropped the box of robes she was carrying upon seeing her. An arrogant voice came from within the store, “Would you hurry up, woman? I haven’t got all day!” and a blond boy poked his head around the door. “You can’t even carry my robes properly! Mother, perhaps we’d better go to a more fitting establishment.” 

Minerva fixed the boy with a silencing glare. “Young Master Malfoy. I would’ve thought, being as highbred as you are, you’d deign to use some manners.” She just about spat the word manners as the young boy looked up at her in shock, unused to being spoken to like that.

“Oh. Sorry.” the boy mumbled, and ran back into the room he came from. Hari didn’t blame him- Minnie had terrified him speaking like that, and he hoped he’d never be on the receiving end. Minnie smiled at Madam Malkin and guided Hari over to the stool next to the blond boy’s, and went to find a robe that she thought would fit best. Mrs Figg squeezed Hari’s shoulder and stood behind him, feeling decidedly out of place in this establishment.

Hari turned to the boy next to him. “I’m sorry if Minnie scared you, she just likes people to be well-behaved. I promise, she’s really nice when you get to know her.”

The blond boy fixed Hari’s green eyes with his own gray ones, and smiled, slightly. “If you say so. What’s your name? I’m Draco.” Hari grinned, and replied, “I’m Hari. I’ve never made a friend before, do you think we could be friends?”

Draco looked at Hari, amused by the boy’s lack of fear. Clearly, he had no knowledge of the Wizarding World, and of the more noble families in it. And, truth be told- Draco would love a friend. All his companions were chosen by his parents, and this little streak of rebellion, of doing something of his own choice rather than preordained by his parents’ hands, brought a little glimmer to his eyes. “I’d like that, Hari.” he said, in a slightly less arrogant tone than usual- his mother turning to look at the small boy who seemed to have so easily won over her son in surprise.

Arabella was impressed. Hari’s first friend was a Malfoy, no less- one of the wealthiest and most arrogant families in the Wizarding World. She just hoped that Hari would not be soured by the Malfoy’s influence- though she doubted such a selfless boy could be corrupted without a fight. Maybe even Hari could sweeten the Malfoy heir, and temper his arrogance. Arabella turned to look at Narcissa Malfoy, wondering what she would think, only to find her gazing at her son with undeniable pride in her eyes. Maybe not every Malfoy was as cold and selfish as their reputation would have people think.

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Prongs woke up as a cloud covered the sun and the delightful warmth on his back faded. With a disgruntled snort, he opened his eyes, and looked around the yard where he lay- the girl- Hermione, they’d called her- had gone. He stretched out his legs, and decided he’s been in deer form for long enough. He began to morph, folding in on himself until James sat in the deer’s place. Hermione, who’d heard the snort and ran to her bedroom window, looked at the man in shock, and promptly ran towards him.

James turned around to the sound of small feet running and was greeted by the sight of a very curious Hermione running full-pelt towards him. James’ eyes widened to the size of saucers as he realised she was going to crash into him, and then with a mighty whoomf all the air was knocked out of his chest as Hermione crashed into him. To her credit, Hermione apologised immediately.

“I saw you transform, how did you do that? You have to teach me!” She finally burst out, once she’d caught her breath. James, who hadn’t used his voice properly in years, struggled to speak, but eventually croaked out, “Muggle?”

Hermoine nodded. “I’m muggleborn, got my letter a month ago. Did you go to Hogwarts?” James nodded, smiling with unmistakable sadness. “I’ve been reading Hogwarts: A History and I’m so excited to go! But,” she broke off, shrinking within herself, “I’m a little worried that I’ll get treated badly because I’m black.” James nodded, understanding. He was Indian, and got mercilessly teased for his skin colour, especially by that git Snivellus. Clearing his throat, he tried once more to speak, trying to ask for water, but instead uttered a croak comparable to a frog. Hermione didn’t understand what he was trying to say, but figured after he’d had a drink of water, it would be easier for him to talk, and went to get him one.

James didn’t know if he was supposed to follow the girl inside, so he just sat there in the backyard until he saw her returning with a glass of water. She passed it to him, and he smiled in thanks before swallowing the whole glass in a few breathless gulps. His voice was still crackly and harsh after years without use, but the water helped him to be able to ask for more water. Hermione stood and gestured for James to follow her into the house.

James drank three glasses of water before he was able to speak without pain. Finally he could thank the girl for her kindness, and she graciously accepted his thanks, before pinching her nose and telling him a shower might be in order. James was impressed that she’d taken so long to point it out, as he had 10 years of filth coating his skin, staining it an even darker brown than usual. He followed Hermione as she showed him to the bathroom. Hermione reached for a clean towel before James stopped her, “perhaps it’s a better idea for me to use a darker coloured towel, just in case I stain it. I don’t want to ruin your beautiful towels.” Hermione chuckled- they were just towels, it wasn’t the end of the world if they got dirty, but she humoured his request. Equipped with a towel, some soap, shampoo and a loofah, Hermione left James to scrub himself clean.

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Draco and Hari finished getting fitted for their robes at about the same time, and both boys asked their accompanying adults if they could have lunch together. Hari suggested a picnic in the park he’d spotted earlier while Draco suggested lunch in a fancy Wizarding restaurant in King’s Cross. Minerva and Narcissa seemed unsure of what to say and how to act around each other, so Arabella stepped up and suggested a compromise- what if we had a picnic in the park today and met at King’s Cross another day for lunch? Hari grinned, while Draco pretended to sulk, and the two families sat down on a hastily transfigured picnic blanket.

Narcissa clapped her hands, and a house elf appeared. Hari fell backwards in surprise, as the house elf turned to look at the boy. “Sorry to startle you, Mr Hari Potter sir!” he cried, the picture of dismay. Draco sat up at that. This boy, was Hari Potter? The famous Hari Potter? Draco’s surprise was mirrored on his mother’s face.

Narcissa turned to Minerva, a question forming on her lips. Minerva nodded, and Narcissa felt ice course down her veins. Lucius would not be happy with this.

“Hari dear, what would you like to eat?” she asked, refusing to betray her concern about her current situation. Hari, who had noticed anyway, looked to his feet. “It’s okay, Mrs Draco, I can go if you want me to. I’m sorry.” Narcissa choked as he called her ‘Mrs Draco-’ now that was a new one. “My name is Narcissa, Hari, you can call me Mrs Malfoy if you’d rather. And don’t apologise, you’ve done nothing wrong.” Hari looked into her eyes, the same stormy grey as Draco’s. She smiled at him, “I promise you Hari, you’ve done nothing wrong. Has Professor McGonogal told you about the Malfoy family?” Hari shook his head.

Narcissa looked to Minerva for permission to continue. Minerva nodded, squeezing Arabella’s hand as she did so. “Well Hari, the Malfoys are a very old and very wealthy pureblood family, with some outdated family beliefs that carry along the line. That meant that when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came to power, he chased many of the same ideas as the Malfoys did, and the Malfoys supported him.”

With a growing sense of horror, Hari realised what she was telling him. As his eyes welled up with tears, Narcissa stopped talking, knowing that nothing more needed to be said by her. Hari scurried over to Minnie and Mrs Figg, burying his face into Mrs Figg’s shoulder as Minnie hugged them both.

Draco sat next to his mother, utterly confused as to why his new friend had gone from being so happy to have a friend to bawling his eyes out in a matter of minutes. He looked to his mother, unsure of what to think, and saw tears in her eyes too- and then it clicked. Hari was famous because of his dead parents. And Draco’s family supported the wizard who killed his parents.

Draco walked over to Hari, and hugged his shuddering form alongside Minerva and Arabella. Narcissa rested her hand on her son’s back, as proud as she was sorry.


	7. A snake is not an evil creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco, Hari, Minerva, Arabella and Narcissa have a picnic lunch, and plan another meetup- Hari and Draco are both thrilled to have a new friend. Hermione's parents meet James and part of Dumbledick's nefarious plan is revealed. Most importantly, I finally explain how Arabella became an Animagus!! I like this chapter :))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early release!! I have a bunch of assignments due so I procrastinated by writing this.

The Malfoy’s house elf eventually returned to Malfoy Manor with a list of food for the picnic. Hari, after seeing how genuinely sorry Draco and Mrs Malfoy were about their involvement in his parent’s death, had decided that at least these two weren’t as bad as their family. That and Hari wasn’t exactly eager to lose the one friend he had made. Minerva’s head was reeling nearly as much as Hari’s- she’d assumed that the Malfoys were all Dark wizards and all unquestioningly followed the Dark Lord without any regrets, which was clearly not the case. Perhaps, not all of Voldemort’s followers were as eagerly involved as she’d assumed them to be. Arabella squeezed her wife’s hand, understanding the thought process and hoping to lend what little comfort she could to the woman she loved.

Draco sat next to Hari, who still leaned against Mrs Figg. He didn’t really know what to say, or if there was anything to say. So, they all sat, in the gentle breeze of the park, the balmy sun gazing down upon the group and slowly melting away the ice between them, a group of unlikely friends- especially with the truth laid bare.

Hari didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until the crack of the Malfoy house elf returning with a massive picnic basket snapped him back into consciousness. Draco’s face lit up beside him and he grinned at the house elf, “Thank you Dobby! This all looks delicious!” while Minerva gently shook awake Arabella for their meal. Dobby clicked his fingers and floated the requested food towards the group, filling the picnic blanket with little sandwiches and glasses filled with lemonade and tiny ice cubes that clinked delightfully. Finally, a small plate of desserts decorated in green and silver landed on the mat. Dobby picked up the basket and went to apparate it away, but not before Hari piped up, “But what about you, Dobby? Aren’t you going to sit with us? There’s plenty of food here, enough for you too!”  
Minerva, Narcissa and Draco bit back a surprised laugh. “But Hari,” Draco’s laughter danced in his eyes, “House elves exist to serve. They’re not our equals, and they never will be.”

Arabella stiffened at this remark. She’d had many such things said to her, and she would not let a fellow magic-user, a fellow being, suffer at the hands of Wizarding arrogance. “No,” her voice cold, “he may not be a wizard, but it is not wrong to offer basic courtesy. Dobby may not have a choice in who and what he is, but you have no right to use that against him. He eats with us.”

Minerva and Narcissa turned to Arabella in shock. Of course she felt so strongly, though they didn’t think of it immediately. Squibs were treated worse than house elves in Wizarding society, and Arabella hated to see people suffer when she could help it. Minerva smiled, resting her hand on Arabella’s knee. This passion, this kindness; this was why she loved her. “Arabella has a point. It won’t do any harm for him to eat with us, if he wants to.”

Dobby had stood silently throughout this exchange. When he finally spoke, he spoke to Hari. “Dobby would like that very much. Not many wizards or witches would share food with a house elf, not with Dobby. You must be a very good wizard indeed, Mr Hari Potter sir.” He bowed deeply to Arabella, and thanked her, before sitting where the picnic basket was.

Hari waited for the others to begin eating before he grabbed some food, still a little unsure of himself, especially since he’d caused so much conflict already. Dobby, after seeing Hari finally eat, picked up a sandwich for himself, and smiled. He’d never met a wizard who had treated him, or any house elf, like an equal. Dobby thought he quite liked Hari Potter.

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Half an hour after Hermione ushered James into the shower, the man reappeared in the kitchen, where she sat reading in the afternoon sun. He’d transfigured a towel into some basic clothing, unable to stomach wearing his old clothes, no matter how much he washed them. He’d incinerated them instead. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, unsure of his place and not wanting to disturb the girl, absorbed in her book. She would be the same age as his son, he realised with a jolt- it was obvious, of course, but often what is obvious does not necessarily register.

Hermione looked up as a cloud passed over the sun and blotted out her warmth, and noticed the figure hesitating in the doorway. She smiled at him, and stood up, carefully shutting her book and placing it on the kitchen bench. “Are you hungry?”

James’ stomach answered for him. Hermione laughed at the sound, and opened the fridge. “Do you like toasted cheese sandwiches?” 

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Ollivander’s doorbell sang out as Dumbledore entered the wand shop. In his robe he carried an ornate orange box, containing a single phoenix feather. Ollivander looked up from the wand he was examining and smiled at the figure, who responded in kind. “Albus! It’s been too long, my friend. How can I help you today?”

Dumbledore retrieved the box from his robe and set it gently on Ollivander’s workbench. “Has Hari Potter bought his wand yet?” Ollivander shook his head. The boy had not yet entered his shop, nor sought out a wand. “Then I have arrived in time. His wand must contain this phoenix feather core. Please ensure it will be so.” Ollivander opened his mouth to protest, only to be silenced by Dumbledore’s cold and unwavering gaze. “You have done it before, Ollivander, and you will do it again. Hari Potter must have this wand.” 

The bell clanged again as Dumbledore strode from the shop, and Ollivander loosed the breath coiled in his chest. It was dark magic indeed that forced a wand upon a wizard, and he hated to perform it. He ran his wand over the feather, tutting at the host of spells that coated the feather- a mimicry of the one time he had previously performed this ritual. A tail feather from the same phoenix, with the same spells cast upon it, bound into a wand cast upon a broken young boy. Ollivander shuddered at the thought, knowing deep down that the spells contained within that wizard’s wand had prompted him onto his dark path. Dumbledore had watched the whole process, that time. He was not here now.

Ollivander wiped the spells from the feather, and set to work.

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Afternoon gave way to dusk, and Minerva decided that they should finish their shopping tomorrow. Hari still needed school supplies, but also real clothes- Draco and Narcissa had offered to take him clothes shopping to some flashy establishment and Hari had looked so excited that she couldn’t say no. Before the group parted ways, they’d decided to meet in King’s Cross for lunch the day after next, and after lunch Draco, Hari and Narcissa would go clothes shopping. Minerva was hesitant to let the boy out of her sight so soon, but was aware that her presence with the Malfoys would raise intense suspicion. She settled with asking Arabella to accompany the trio in Animagus form.

Narcissa had been quite surprised at that- after all, Squibs can’t do magic! Arabella herself could barely wrap her head around how it had happened, so Minerva had explained.

“As you know, I am a legilimens. Arabella here has incredibly strong mental shields, that even I can’t penetrate. But on our wedding night, for whatever reason, they dropped.”

Arabella did understand this part. “That was the moment I decided to fully trust you.” she smiled, basking in the warmth of her memory.

“That makes sense. Anyway, when her shields dropped, I felt her slide into my mind- she’s not a legilimens, and I have no idea how she did it, but as she entered my mind, I entered hers. And standing in the middle of her mind, was a cat.”

Arabella shifted into her feline form to punctuate Minerva’s words.

“Exactly. That cat was and is the same cat that you see now,” she said, smiling at her wife while running her hand through her soft fur, “except in her mind, the cat was bound in chains. It took some time, but I managed to call enough of my magic into her mind to break the chains, and free the cat.”

Arabella chuckled. “Just after she did that, I changed into a cat. One second, we were in bed-” the boys gagged, laughing at the implications- “the next second there was a cat under the covers.”

“It caught me by surprise, that’s for sure. Arabella still can’t perform any spells, but from what I can gather her magic core manifested in the form of the cat. It’s long been known that Squibs have magical cores, they’re just unable to access them; that was exactly the case, except her magical core took the form of an animal. Once I unlocked her magical core, she was able to access it, and thus her Animagus form.”

This conversation still rang in Minerva’s ears as they returned home- she’d not shared the story of how Arabella became an Animagus with anyone before, and yet it had flowed so easily off her tongue to Narcissa. Minerva began to think that, had things been different, she and Narcissa would have been firm friends.

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Hermione’s parents arrived home to find a strange man leaning against the lounge, deep in conversation with their daughter, and did the logical thing.

A lot of screaming and hitting ensued, until James transformed back into a deer, prompting an end of the violence and some shocked silence in its place. Hoping not to be hit again, James returned to human form, as Hermione stood in front of him with her hands planted firmly on her hips, glaring at her parents. “Hermione, stop. I’d have done the same thing if I walked in to see a random man in my house chatting to my son.” Seeing the logic in the statement, Hermione sat back down, and James began to explain.

Thankfully, Hermione had already educated her parents on the magical world, and they were curious rather than afraid. James left out a lot, summarising his story as a father who’d lost his son, and was desperately trying to find him, knowing that the full story would only confuse these poor muggles. Hermione’s parents’ curiosity and confusion bubbled within them, until a plethora of questions bubbled from them- James chuckled as he realised where Hermione got her inquisitive nature from. Finally, they arrived at the inevitable question.

“What’s your son’s name?”

James smiled, his face softening. “Hari Potter.”

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Narcissa and Draco stood beside Lucius, waiting for him to seat himself at the head of the table before they sat and began the stiff-backed meal. Lucius was in a foul mood, and took his time to sit down, watching his wife and son wait- in the latter’s case, impatiently. Finally, he sat down, and a house elf pushed his chair in behind him. Draco and Narcissa sat too, pulling their own chairs in, and food appeared on the table- all manner of roast vegetables, and a massive dish of slow-cooked pork, surrounded by different salads, and intricate silver goblets inlaid with emeralds filled with wine, watered down for Draco. After Lucius served himself, his wife and son followed suit, until the three of them were eating silently.

Lucius turned to Draco. “I assume you have a good excuse as to why you and your mother returned so late?” his voice cold enough to freeze over Draco’s wine. Draco picked up his goblet, an icy mask over his own face, and melted the wine with a whispered spell, before taking a small sip, hiding his distaste for the beverage. “Of course, Father. That fool, Madam Malkin, was utterly incompetent- she couldn’t seem to find anything in the correct quality, nor the correct size, and kept dropping her boxes of robes as she tripped over her own massive feet. It’s a wonder she’s still in business,” he said with a sneer, “Mother had to threaten taking her business elsewhere before she began any pretence of competence.”

Lucius nodded. He had no respect for the robemaker, preferring to have his own made by a personal tailor. “I see. And where are your books?”

“In my room, Father. I began studying my potions textbook before I was called to the meal.”

Lucius was pleased by his son’s dedication to his studies- he was a fine heir. “Excellent. Do not be late again, Draco- it does not reflect the values of the Malfoy name to be so disrespectful.”

Draco nodded, the picture of subservience. “Of course, Father. I will not disrespect you in this way again.”

The three finished their meals, and Draco returned to his room while his parents went to the sitting room. Sitting on his desk was his letter to Hari, exactly as he left it, right beside his potions textbook. He quickly scrawled a signature, and sealed the letter with emerald wax, shining like snake scales in the candlelight. He gave the letter to his owl, opening the window for the beautiful creature to fly out- not before giving her a scratch on the head for her efforts. She hooted softly before flying out the window, and Draco shut it with a gentle click.

With a rather undignified flop, the Malfoy heir fell into bed and waited for his new friend to reply.

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Hari woke with a start as Draco’s owl rapped at the window with an outstretched talon, a letter clasped in her beak. The boy scrambled out of bed and opened the window, beckoning for the owl to enter. He could see light coming through the crack under his door, and heard bustling in the kitchen, so he called out for Minnie. She pushed his door open, slow enough for it to creak slightly, and smiled as she saw the boy with an owl on his bed. “Minnie, can we give Draco’s owl a snack? She must have flown a long way.” The owl trilled, a deep and rich sound, in agreement.

Minerva couldn’t help but chuckle, and summoned some chicken from the fridge to give to the owl. Hari held the chicken out for the owl, taking the letter from her beak so she could eat it- the owl snatched it from Hari’s hands, startling him, and chirruped with delight. Minerva left Hari to read his letter, shutting the door behind her, and resumed her antics in the kitchen.

Hari stroked the owl’s soft feathers with one hand while breaking the wax seal with the other, marvelling at the snakeskin texture of the seal, and the way the emerald shone in the soft light of his bedside lamp. He unfolded the letter and began to read.

_Hi Hari!_

_I know I’ll see you again in a couple of days, but I wanted to write anyway._

_Firstly, I wanted to apologise for my family’s involvement in your parents death. I’m rereading Hogwarts: A History and trying to compare what my father has taught me against what Bathilda Bagshot has said- I figure she’s pretty reliable, as Father says she was friends with your parents- to figure out my own idea of what is right. Father says Muggleborns and half-bloods are abominations, and don’t deserve a place in magical society, and all my friends have always been pureblood witches and wizards from fellow Dark families, chosen by my father, so I guess I’ve never really thought to question it. But, you’re a half-blood, and your mother was Muggleborn, and I’m not so sure that what Father thinks is right is actually right._

_I find it sometimes is easier to talk through writing. Sometimes I go to say something and I just can’t quite get the words right- I wanted to say this to you today but the words wouldn’t come out. Hence why I’ve written._

_Are you excited to go to Hogwarts? I mean, of course you would be, but I know you haven’t always lived with magic so I thought you might be extra excited to go to Hogwarts and learn magic. Mother has been teaching me all sorts of spells, and I even did wandless magic tonight- Father froze my drink and I melted it without my wand! Only very powerful witches and wizards can do wandless magic, so it was probably accidental magic, but it would be incredible if it was real. Has Professor McGonagal taught you any magic yet?_

_Do you know what house you’d like to be in? I think I’ll be in Slytherin, my whole family has been. Slytherin is the most hated house, it’s supposed to be a Dark house, because the Dark Lord was a Slytherin. Mother says people are just jealous because Merlin was a Slytherin, and he’s the greatest wizard there ever was! I want to be a powerful wizard, just like Merlin, so I hope I’m in Slytherin._

_Please write back! My owl’s name is Rowena (I named her after Ravenclaw because owls are supposed to be very intelligent creatures, but she doesn’t always act like it) and I’ve asked her to stay with you until you reply. She loves chicken, if you’ve got any!_

_Regards, Draco___

_ _Hari didn’t know much about the Hogwarts houses, but he knew who did. His door creaked open and his footsteps padded towards the kitchen, and Minnie._ _


	8. Morality stokes the fires of the indefensible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore's motives are revealed, Lucius is introduced and Minerva bakes great biscuits while giving out wisdom left, right and centre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, sorry this chapter is out late. I've been busy procrastinating from literally everything, but I hope the fact that this chapter is longer than usual and relatively plot-heavy helps. Hope everyone is coping alright with the bullshittery that is coronavirus :(

Minnie had just set the last tray of biscuits in the oven when she heard little footsteps behind her, and turned to see Hari gazing up at her, his eyes filled with curiosity. “Minnie,” he asked, “can you tell me about the Hogwarts Houses?” She smiled at him, her expression as warm and lovely as the biscuits she was baking. Minerva sat down on the floor in front of the oven, Hari sitting on her lap, and began her tale.

“Hogwarts was founded by 4 witches and wizards, the namesakes of their houses, older than Merlin himself. Their names were Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin. In fact, the suburb you were born in was named after Gryffindor- Godric’s Hollow.”

Hari wasn’t the most observant of folks, and despite knowing that he was born in Godric’s Hollow from Minnie’s stories and knowing Godric Gryffindor’s name from Hogwarts: A History, it hadn’t quite clicked in his mind that they were one and the same until Minnie pointed it out.

“Each witch and wizard complimented each other, and together they formed an ideal school, promoting values like strength, loyalty, ambition, curiosity and acceptance. However, over time, the four houses began to take their inter-school competitions more seriously, and a genuine rivalry between not just the houses, but the founders began.”

Minnie stood up, her back creaking and groaning, and pulled a tray of biscuits out of the oven with her favourite cat oven mitts. She blew a gentle gust of magic across the tray, cooling them just enough to be eaten, and passed one to Hari.

“For whatever reason, Salazar Slytherin decided that his main values, ambition and cunning, could only be fostered in pureblood witches and wizards, and he petitioned to remove anyone ‘unpure’ or in his eyes, unworthy of learning magic, from Hogwarts. Unsurprisingly, the other founders disagreed, and as he was overruled, all he could do was control his own house, and foster a deep dislike of anyone who wasn’t pure blooded. While this is not true of Slytherin House any longer, the wizarding world has never forgiven Salazar’s actions, and continues to look upon Slytherin House and its entirely blameless pupils as the root of all evil.”  
Hari nodded, understanding what Draco meant about people thinking Slytherin was a Dark house.

“I am the head of Gryffindor. The main values of Godric Gryffindor were loyalty and courage, and I make sure that continues in my House. The Gryffindors are the loudest and unruliest house, and they drive me up the wall, but the house promotes a strong sense of camaraderie, and seeing the whole house band together to stick up for each other makes up for their brashness.”

Hari liked the sound of that, but he valued his peace and quiet and solitude deeply, and didn’t think he could handle the Gryffindors- he still jumped at sudden noises and flinched at loud noises and cried himself to sleep some nights and he just couldn’t bear the thought of never having the privacy and quiet to sort through his thoughts in his own way.

“Ravenclaw is often known as the ‘smart house’ but if I’m honest, the smartest pupils usually come from Slytherin. Ravenclaw is better described as the curious house, because Ravenclaws dedicate their time investigating anything and everything that interests them, meaning they never finish their homework because they’re researching something else. They’re surprisingly chaotic in that regard, despite their reputation as quiet, bookish, clever students.”

Hari knew he was curious about a lot of things, but he didn’t think he’d have the dedication to spend his time researching every little thing that interested him- he’d rather have a goal and do everything he could to achieve it, not getting distracted from his goal. Truth be told, Hari was just not perceptive enough to be a Ravenclaw, even if he wanted to be.

“And finally, Hufflepuff- Helga was the kindest and most motherly of all the founders, and she wanted her house to be kind and inclusive to all people, and to truly care about everyone. The Hufflepuffs have the tightest-knit community of any house, and are the most observant of people’s behaviour. A lot of Hufflepuffs become medics, as they’re better at reading their patients than anyone else. It’s hard to have that weight of caring for your housemates on your shoulders all the time, but they organise it so well and have such an incredible support system that it works perfectly.”

Now this, Hari knew he couldn’t do. He couldn’t even look after himself, much less a bunch of other students, and the idea of having people analysing his behaviour at every given moment didn’t appeal to him. He decided he’d try to avoid the Hufflepuffs- he liked the idea of how they functioned, but it still scared him more than he cared to admit.

Minerva watched the cogs turn in Hari’s mind, wondering what he was thinking, but content to wait until he was ready to say. She pulled another two trays of biscuits from the oven, letting them cool naturally this time.

“Minnie, what house do you think I’ll be in?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione just about lost her mind. The deer-man James, was James Potter, father of Hari Potter- and he was supposed to be dead. There was a dead man sitting in her lounge room. Her eyes threatened to pop out of her head, confusion and shock a flurry in her mind.

“But… But you’re dead!”

James chuckled, though the sound wasn’t pleasant. “That’s what Dumbledore wants you to think. It’s what he wanted, though it didn’t go to plan”

Now it was Hermione’s parents turn to gape. Hermione had spent the last three weeks gushing about how great a wizard her Headmaster was, and now this man, who should be dead, is shaking the world upside down.

“No way. Dumbledore is a great wizard! He defeated the Dark wizard Grindelwald and is the only wizard Voldemort is afraid of!”

James’ eyes softened. “I’m sorry Hermione. But if he was really like that, my wife wouldn’t be dead and I’d still have my son.” 

Hermione’s parents heard the raw agony in his voice, the pain of a man who’d been tortured in ways their worst nightmares touched on. Hermione was their pride and joy, and if they lost her- they’d tear the world apart. They looked to each other, tears echoing in each other’s eyes, and knew this man was telling the truth.

“Sit down James. Tell us your story again, but truly.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hari sat at the kitchen table, biscuits cooling on wire racks in front of him as he scratched out a reply to his new friend Draco. The quill he was using scratched and scored the paper, and Hari winced with each scrape, cursing his own incompetence. Minnie pulled the final tray of biscuits from the oven and set them on the top of the wire racks just as Hari snarled, dragging the quill through the page like a knife. Minnie put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, her heart sinking as he flinched from her touch.

“Hari, perhaps I can help?” Minerva asked, her voice gentle and warm, a soothing presence to calm his frustration. Hari looked up at her, his green eyes gazing into hers, and nodded, though not without somewhat more force than necessary. Minerva pulled out the chair next to Hari’s, a beautiful hand-carved chair, made of polished rosewood, and settled down next to the boy, opening her hand for him to pass the quill. Hari set the quill down in her hand, and with a wave of her hand, Minnie banished the paper and summoned a new piece of parchment.

“Hari, I’m sorry for not showing you how it’s done. I understand you’d be used to using a pen, and the switch from a pen to a quill is difficult, to say the least. Calligraphy is an art form - you saw Draco’s handwriting in his letter - and it’s something that takes time to master.” To punctuate her statement, she summoned another piece of parchment - lined this time - and an accompanying list of all the letters of the alphabet, written in upper and lowercase, with arrows drawn around the letters. “This is just one style of calligraphy, a simple font that is ideal for learning how to use a quill with. You begin by holding your quill like this-” Minerva raised up the quill, the rich blue lustre of the feather shining in the candlelight, showing Hari how to hold it “- and then you follow the direction of the arrows to write the letters. I imagine that you already have your own distinct handwriting by now, so don’t feel you have to copy the letters perfectly. It’s more about getting a feel for how the quill writes, and figuring out how to hold it for different letters.”

Hari nodded, a little daunted. He had never expected writing to become so difficult; to be fair, he hadn’t expected much of what he’d begun to learn in this new world. But, he really wanted to reply to Draco, so he figured he may as well get started learning how to write with a quill now.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“When I was a boy, I went to Hogwarts too. Obviously. I was a Gryffindor, I was popular, and my parents were rich and influential. I had everything I wanted, and I was arrogant enough to think that would never change. Professor Dumbledore, for whatever reason, found my friends and I to be charming, and encouraged our every misadventure, cementing him as the one we’d turn to whenever we were in trouble. He was the one we trusted most.”

Hermione nodded. This lined up with what she’d read about the Headmaster; that he was kind, benevolent and easily amused.

“Anyway, a bunch of things went wrong really quickly. For as long as I was at Hogwarts, I’d had a massive crush on a witch named Lily Evans. Her best friend was Severus Snape, and my friends and I couldn’t stand Snivellus, we used to play all sorts of nasty practical jokes on him, and he got us back just as good. Anyway, one day my friend Sirius did something so incredibly stupid that even I can’t forgive him for it. His boyfriend Remus was a werewolf, and we all became Animagus so he’d have some company when he transformed. Snape was suspicious of Remus, and jealous that he’d always one-up him in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Sirius left breadcrumbs for Snape to find, leading him to find Remus mid-transformation. I had to pin Moony to the wall by his throat with my antlers to stop him from killing Snape, and we both ended up in the hospital wing, half-dead by the morning.”

Hermione’s parents shuddered, their eyes widened and skin clammy. Hermione nestled herself closer into her parents’ arms, shaking a little, but trying her darndest not to let it show.

“That incident made Snape hate werewolves more than anything else in the world, and he turned to Voldemort’s circle in order to get revenge against us. By seventh year, he was not only Marked, but was in Voldemort’s inner circle of Death Eaters.”  
Now that made Hermione gasp aloud. She knew that Severus Snape was the potions professor at Hogwarts- did that mean her very life was at stake just by going there? The fear in her parents’ eyes confirmed she was not alone in her thoughts. James cast them a sympathetic glance, and plunged back into his tale.

“Snape’s abandonment of morality drove Lily from him too, and we began dating early sixth year. The incident, as we called it, sobered me up a lot, and I started actually trying not to be a prat. Eventually, Snape overheard a prophecy, saying that a child born on the last day of July to parents that had thrice defied Voldemort was destined to equal Voldemort’s power and defeat him. Dumbledore also heard this prophecy, and sent two wizarding families into hiding- us, and the Longbottoms- as we both had a son born on the 31st of July, and we were both actively involved in bringing down that sick bastard, and he remained Secret Keeper for us both. I imagine you’ve read of the Fidelius charm, Hermione?”

Hermione nodded, and detailed it to her parents.

“Dumbledore decided that if Hari and Neville were left in the care of their respective parents, either one of them would indeed defeat Voldemort, and steal away from Dumbledore the perfect position to end yet another reign of terror and replace it with his own rule. Of course, he’s convinced it’s for the greater good, and that his morals are flawless so all of wizardkind should have to live by them, but nonetheless he plans to become a dictator, by overthrowing Voldemort and the Ministry thus replacing them with himself. So, he betrayed us to Snape, of all people.”

Hermione was struggling to reconcile what James had told her with what her books had told her, and was chewing on the inside of her lips, her eyes deep in conflicted thought.

“Voldemort sent his minions to break Neville’s parents with Cruciatus, leaving him to be adopted by his grandmother, to lovingly beat the steel out of him. And as for us? Voldemort himself came after us, and killed my fucking wife!” 

James couldn’t help but roar that last sentence, his eyes glinting with rage and agony and a burning desire for vengeance. Hermione’s parents clutched their daughter to them, more than a little concerned- James looked at the trio and slumped to the ground, the wind taken out of him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.” he whispered, about to cry. “He killed my wife, and he tried to kill my son, but Lily’s sacrifice saved him, and the curse rebounded, shattering his room. And-” James looked up, tears trickling down his face, “- I was too late. I transformed and sticked that bastard through the gut with my antlers, but the bastard made Horcruxes so I didn’t even kill him, and no matter what, Lily was still dead. The love of my life, lying broken on the floor, clutching our son to her chest, saving him. And I couldn’t save her.” Sobs wracked the man’s too-thin figure, a shuddering agony ripping through him with every gasp of breath, every tear burning down his face. The three Grangers kneeled around him, embracing him, keening for the man’s suffering.

James eventually wiped the tears from his face, and continued. “Dumbledore was the first on the scene. He walked into Hari’s room and saw me, clutching Lily and Hari in my arms and sobbing, and he helped me up, leading me away from Lily and Hari, and I don’t even know what spell he put me under but I couldn’t fight it, and I left them! I left them there, and I walked away from everyone I loved with Dumbledore. He took me to the very top floor of Azkaban, which most of wizardkind don’t even know exists, and he locked me there, just sitting outside my cell until I stopped sobbing and began screaming. Then he told me he was sorry, but he just couldn’t let my son steal away his one chance of making Wizarding Britain a utopia, and that sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. As if you can defend being directly responsible for murder, for attempted infanticide. Dumbledore is just as guilty as Voldemort, and he still sees himself as the good guy.”

“He proclaimed to the world that Lily and I were both killed, and that Voldemort tried to kill Harry but the curse backfired and banished him to the realm between worlds- where he’s not truly dead, but too weak to take a physical form. While it’s true that Hari’s scar is from the curse backfiring, the latter isn’t true- he can possess the body of his followers and is still very much alive, thanks to his horcruxes. Please don’t ask me to explain what a horcrux is, as there’s some things no eleven-year-old should know.” James said, smiling weakly at Hermione, just as her question bubbled up and promptly died before passing her lips.

“In the years I was imprisoned, Dumbledore would come every month, and sit in that same bloody chair, and torment me by telling me his plans for my son. He sent him to live with Lily’s sister and her husband, knowing they would abuse him and break his very spirit, knowing they’d render my son an empty shell for Dumbledore’s machinations, to use my son to bring down Voldemort but claim the credit himself, to make my son cannon fodder, a mere tool for that sadistic bastard’s plans. And, on Hari’s eleventh birthday, I finally gained the courage to bust out. I will not let my son suffer, not while I can do something about it.”

“I’m going to find Hari, and I’m going to give him the life he deserves.”


	9. Truth is the blaze that burns and heals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hari gets himself an owl, and another familiar, self harm and abuse triggers present, Hari and Mrs Figg get bonding time, and Hari gets a wand!! Now my friend- Riley, you bastard- can stop teasing me about how long it's taken me to write the Diagon Alley scene(s)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay everyone. This chapter is a little longer (3000 words, they're normally 2500 per chapter) to try and make up for that. I don't have any posting schedule at the moment as I'm in my final year of school and between the HSC and COVID-19, things aren't going exactly to plan. Anyway, I hope this chapter isn't too bad :)

_Dear Draco,_

_I had to ask Minnie about the houses, because I don’t know much about them. But, now that I do, I really don’t know where I’ll go. I definitely don’t want to be in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, and Minnie says all the Gryffindors are loud and brash, and I’m not good with noise. I think I’d like to be in Slytherin too- Minnie explained why Slytherin has a bad reputation, and why people might think I’m evil from becoming a Slytherin, but that she knows I’ll be a great wizard regardless of my house, and that Slytherin is not, and will not make me evil._

_I’m not so sure that I’m not already evil though. My muggle family told me my parents died in a car accident while trying to escape the burden that was me. I know that’s not what happened, but I’ve always been taught to believe that I’m an evil freak, and my aunt and uncle saw me for the monster that I am- what if Slytherin won’t make me evil because I already am?  
I still don’t really understand the blood purity debate. Minnie says some wizards, like your family and Voldemort, think only people born into magical families should be allowed magic. But if anyone is born into a family with magic, doesn’t that make them magical? I don’t understand it, if only purebloods should have magic then why do muggle-borns exist?_

_I haven’t even done magic with a wand yet, but wandless magic sounds impressive. I bet you’ll be the most powerful wizard in all of Hogwarts, maybe even the world! I think Mrs Figg is taking me to buy a wand tomorrow morning before we meet you- you should bring yours too and we can show each other! Maybe you could even teach me some magic._

_Thank you for writing, and I made sure to give Rowena chicken and a scratch. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, Draco!_

_-Hari___

_ _\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

_ _Draco opened the letter, grinning as he flopped on his bed. His grin faded as he began to read. Why does the famous Hari Potter hate himself? Rowena was too tired for another flight, so he sketched out a note of what he wanted to say to Hari tomorrow, his eyes dotted with concern._ _

_ _His door opened with a soft click as he pored over his notes and he slid his open potions textbook over the note as he spun around to greet the figure at the door. Narcissa’s soft gaze met his own, and he smiled up at his mother, rising from his seat to greet her._ _

_ _“Your father has agreed to let us travel to King’s Cross tomorrow, from midday until 4 o’clock sharp, to shop for clothes and lunch. I didn’t tell him of Hari, of course, but it is best to stick as close to the truth as possible when lying, to make it believable. You know this lesson well, my son,” she smiled down upon him, pride glowing in her eyes at her son’s masterful diplomacy._ _

_ _Draco’s composure couldn’t survive such praise and he beamed up at his mother, before concern flittered across his features again. Narcissa gazed upon her son with distinct unease- perhaps the day had troubled too many of Draco’s conditioned beliefs. She quickly cast aside this idea when Draco passed her a note in shaky handwriting and she began to read, consternation clouding her eyes. She had noticed the way Hari covered his arms, the way he flinched from anything loud or unexpected, and his unusual countenance for a young boy, but hadn’t put two and two together. With his thought pattern to compound her suspicions, it was clear the boy had been abused, and likely quite severely._ _

_ _Draco watched his mother as emotions darted across her face, until she raised her eyes from the letter to meet his own. “Draco, it seems the awe the wizarding world has for Mister Potter has not extended to his family. Did you notice how Hari was very quiet and jumpy?” Draco nodded, confusion mingling with concern. “It would seem that Hari’s muggle family beat him, and likely did far worse.” Draco’s eyes flashed with the pain of realisation._ _

_ _\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

_ _Hari woke as a shadow fell over him, and he froze- ice crept along his veins, clutched his heart with icy claws- squeezing his eyes shut and breathing shakily, doing his best to make himself invisible to the man he knew must be leaning over him, belt in hand. A hand reached from the shadow and touched his shoulder- he jumped as though stung by the vicious bite of a whip, watching his memory unfold of dozens such mornings, ending in blood and tears and burning agony, soothed only by the lines of split skin he drew upon his own arms._ _

_ _“Hari? Hari, it’s Mrs Figg. Are you okay?”_ _

_ _He cracked upon an eye, tears pricking as he gazed into the concerned eyes of Mrs Figg, not Uncle Vernon. Hari shuddered, tears blurring his vision, and Mrs Figg grabbed the boy into a warm embrace, his tears soaking through her shirt. “Hari darling, what’s wrong? It’s okay sweetheart, everything is okay now, you’re safe here. Minnie and I won’t let anyone hurt you again. It’s okay Hari, everything is going to be okay.”_ _

_ _Hari clung to the warmth, the security in those whispered words, just as he clung to the warm figure of Mrs Figg. “I thought-” he gasped, a sob wracking his bony frame, “-I thought I was back with my aunt and uncle, and my uncle was standing above me with a belt” he choked out, refusing to remove his face from where it pressed into Mrs Figg’s shoulder._ _

_ _“Oh Hari. I’m so sorry. I promise, you’ll never go back there again. Your uncle will never touch you again.”_ _

_ _Mrs Figg held Hari close as his tears slowly abated, as his clinging arms slowly released their iron grip. Hari peeled his face from her soaked sleeve, tears and snot caked to his face, a devastating painting of the fear and trauma coiled within the core of the boy, and she led him to the bathroom across the hall, gently wiping his face clean with a damp cloth, the cool fabric soothing the redness around his eyes. Hari cast a watery smile up to Mrs Figg, and hugged her closely once more._ _

_ _The pair walked to the kitchen, Mrs Figg’s steps cautious to avoid stepping on the toes of the boy clinging to her. She pulled out a stool for Hari to sit on, his hands lingering before dropping down to his sides as she moved away to grab breakfast for them both. She returned from the pantry with two bowls of Minerva’s favourite granola, and dolloped vanilla yogurt on top, before setting the bowls in front of Hari and the stool next to him. Finally, she sat down next to him, placing his spoon next to the bowl, and the boy immediately leaned back onto her shoulder, taking tentative bites of his breakfast._ _

_ _\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

_ _Ollivander stood from the stool behind his desk as the bell on his door tinkled, and a skinny little boy with glasses too big for his face walked in, eyes darting around as he walked towards the desk. A white and grey cat, with glowing amber eyes, rubbed itself around his ankles, pushing him towards Ollivander.  
“You must be Hari. A pleasure to meet you, Mister Potter. Why, it feels like only yesterday your parents were in here, buying their wands- you look just like your father, my boy.”_ _

_ _Hari watched the man, wide-eyed as he spoke; his feet locked to the floor, no matter how much the cat pushed on his ankles. Ollivander’s gaze locked on the boy, a deer caught in headlights, and his eyes softened. “I do believe you’ll make a fine wizard, with parents like yours. But come now Hari, let us find you a wand! Which is your wand hand, my boy?”_ _

_ _Hari’s eyes clouded with confusion, until the cat nipped his left ankle. Hari’s eyes dropped to the cat, and she rubbed herself over his left ankle. Understanding shone through the clouds in his eyes, and he met Ollivander’s eyes, “Left, sir.”_ _

_ _Ollivander nodded, and pulled a box from the shelf. Despite Dumbledore’s orders, he was still curious to see if any other wands bonded with the boy, and he was reluctant to give a wand created through a sacrificial ritual to such a vulnerable child. The box he’d pulled was a wand similar to Lily Evans’ wand- 10 inches to Lily’s 10 ¼, willow, swishy, a unicorn hair core. “Hold out your left hand then Hari, and give this one a swish.” He slid the wand into Hari’s outstretched hand._ _

_ _The wand cooled in Hari’s hand, and as he swished the wand a swirl of razor-sharp icicles fell from its tip, shattering on the floor. Ollivander tutted, vanishing the ice shards and removing the wand from Hari’s hand. “Not quite right, that one- let’s try another then.” He summoned another box from the back of the store- 12 inches to James’ 11, mahogany, pliable, with a dragon heartstring core. Sliding it from the box, he placed the wand in Hari’s hand, gesturing for him to wave it as he had done the other._ _

_ _This wand felt hot in Hari’s hands- just hot enough to be uncomfortable, not enough to burn. He waved it and steam billowed from the tip, hissing and coiling like an angry cat. Ollivander banished that too, plucking the wand from Hari’s hands, and passing him another, and another. Boxes piled up beside Ollivander, his face unreadable, and he finally passed Hari the wand with Fawkes’ tail feather nestled inside an 11 ½ inch chestnut wand, the length carved and polished with runes for protection, guidance and strength of mind carved in swirling patterns._ _

_ _The wand felt warm in Hari’s hand, the warmth of hugging Mrs Figg and Minnie, the warmth of admitting his insecurities to Draco, the warmth of the love and safety he’d been given in his new home. Before he even waved the wand, Ollivander knew that this wand was perfect, and somehow knew that even without the ritual, this wand would have been perfect for Hari. Relief shone through his face, and a new rune shone on the wand- the rune for protection against corruption. Hari waved the wand, and emerald green sparks, the colour of his eyes and Minnie’s robes, danced from the tip like autumn leaves dancing in the breeze. Hari looked up to meet Ollivander’s eyes, and the man couldn’t help but smile. “Take good care of that wand, Hari, and she’ll take good care of you.”_ _

_ _\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

_ _Hermione and her parents went out for tea that night, accompanied by James, who’d cast a glamour over his face. Before the shops had closed, James had ducked into the menswear department and bought himself the very basics- the Granger’s had loaned him their credit card, and he refused to burden them with anything more expensive than cheap, basic clothing. Once he had access to his vault, he’d pay them back for this and more- but for now he was forced to live off their charity._ _

_ _“So, when I get to school, who should I trust?” Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he met her gaze. “Unless you’re a Slytherin, don’t trust Snape. He’s a brilliant Potions Master, and a dedicated Head of House, but that’s the extent of anything good you’ll see of him. McGonagall is the most trustworthy witch I know- regardless of your house or concern, she’ll hear you out and do something about it. Madame Pomfrey reports to McGonagall, but only go to her for medical problems just in case. The other two Heads of House are trustworthy if you’re in their house, otherwise your paths won’t cross to often. Hagrid, the gamekeeper, is a wonderful man, but can’t keep a secret to save his life.Most of all, trust your gut.” Hermione nodded, the words sinking in just as new questions bubbled up._ _

_ _“Can I tell Hari you’re alive?” James shook his head, the picture of misery. “If some random girl came up to you and told you your parent, who’s been dead for years, was actually alive, you wouldn’t believe them. I’d suggest going to McGonagall- tell her you met an old friend of hers, and he’d love to catch up. It’s best that she sees me in person before you tell her I’m alive, or she’ll write you off as delusional.” Hermione nodded again, seeing the logic in James’ plan._ _

_ _“School starts in a week, doesn’t it?” Hermione turned to her parents, nodding and grinning. “You’ll have to send us a letter when you settle in and tell us all about it, I can’t wait to hear about all the adventures you’ll get up to learning magic,” her mother beamed at Hermione, “and with that owl of yours, the letters will get here faster than ever. Will I be able to reply straight away, or do you think she’ll be too tired from the first trip?”_ _

_ _“I think she’d be fine, but it’s probably kinder to wait. Maybe only reply immediately if it’s an emergency?” Her mother quickly agreed. The Grangers were a very close-knit family, and as exciting as a magical boarding school is, the distance would be difficult. Hermione was very glad her parents had bought her an owl, and thus had named her Tracy after her parents’ favourite poet._ _

_ _\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

_ _Hari and Mrs Figg had only one last stop on their morning trip- Hari had his wand, schoolbooks and trunk as well as a high-quality pewter cauldron, and all that he needed was a familiar. As much as he loved the idea of having Mrs Figg in her feline form come to school with him as his familiar- he thought she was joking, anyway- he did need an owl. And so, boy and cat stood at the door of Magical Menagerie, their ears flooded with trills and hisses and screeches from the plethora of animals inside. Mrs Figg nudged his ankle and he walked inside._ _

_ _As he walked towards the owls, a beautiful snowy owl caught his eyes. Her eyes gleamed the same intelligent amber as Mrs Figg, and even she looked to the owl with pricked ears. “Hi there,” Hari whispered, his voice hushed with reverence, “you’re absolutely beautiful.” The owl trilled, a lyrical three-note tune, and Hari fell in love. “Do you have a name?” The owl cocked her head and chirruped softly. “What do you think of Hedwig?” She trilled again, leaning down to nibble Hari’s fingers, and hopped off the perch to sit on his shoulder, nibbling at his messy mop of hair. Hari couldn’t help but giggle. “I guess you chose me then, huh girl? Thanks, Hedwig.” he murmured, his hand drawn to the downy feathers on Hedwig’s chest, running his fingers through her feathers as she preened with happiness._ _

_ _Hari began to walk towards the counter when he heard a soft voice calling his name. “Hari? Hari Potter?” The boy spun around, startling Mrs Figg and Hedwig, who squawked indignantly. He began to walk towards the source of the voice, heading to the back of the store. As he poked his head through the curtain separating the main store from the reptile room, a white snake dotted with tawny shades locked eyes with him. “Hari. You are Hari, aren’t you?” Hari nodded. “My name is Salazar. I am the great great grandchild of the snake that gave Slytherin its crest. I suggest that you bring me to Hogwarts too.”_ _

_ _Hari had never spoken to a snake before. But he liked Salazar, and the ball python’s companionship certainly wouldn’t go awry. Besides, a snake related to the snake of Slytherin would surely be useful. “Okay, Salazar. Climb on up,” he smiled, offering his arm. The snake wrapped itself around his wrist, flicking his arm with his tongue. “What have you done to your arm, child? I can smell the pain through your clothes.” Hari shuddered, hoping Mrs Figg didn’t hear, and ignored the snake’s question, walking to the counter instead._ _

_ _“Mister Potter. An excellent choice in owl. She’s a fine bird. Feed her plenty of vole and you’ll have a lifelong friend. And what’s this? A snake as well?” the saleswitch reached out to pat Salazar’s head. “He’s been with us for a while, I’m glad to see him going to a good home.” She straightened, holding out her hand. “That’ll be 45 galleons.” Hari pulled the purse from his pocket and counted out the coins, placing them in the witch’s hand. “Perfect. Have a lovely day, Mr Potter, and be sure to visit again if you need anything for your familiars.” Hari nodded and thanked the witch, heading out the door, Mrs Figg trailing him._ _

_ _\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

_ _Arabella shifted back to human form the second she and Hari, and Hari’s personal zoo, stepped from the fireplace. She had no idea the boy was a parselmouth- she didn’t know if he knew, or had known before he started chatting with a snake. She was out of her depth here- her personal dislike of snakes might taint her explanation of parseltongues, so she thought she’d leave it for Minerva._ _

_ _“Alright then Hari, let’s set up Hedwig and…” she looked to him, unsure of the snake’s name. “Salazar. His name is Salazar.” Arabella nodded, a little phased, “Okay, well let’s set up Salazar and Hedwig in your room. There’s a perch in there already, and I’m sure Minnie can transfigure something for Salazar when she gets home. Be quick now sweetheart, we have to meet Draco in half an hour.” At the reminder of Draco, Hari’s face lit up even brighter. “Okay Mrs Figg! I’ll be quick, I promise.”_ _


	10. The bite of fear can be soothed by gentle affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hari goes shopping with Narcissa and Draco to get some new clothes, and then out for lunch afterwards. Social attitudes towards the Malfoys are shown, Hari is a sweet little cinnamon bun who is absolutely hopeless at reading people (but somehow really good at understanding Mrs Figg in cat form).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's beginning to become a recurring theme for me to start by apologising for how late my chapters are. Anyway, I've given up on a posting schedule, you'll get em when my brain decides to work. Expect heavy delays at the moment because I'm in my final year of school and exams are very VERY soon and I am panicking. Enjoy!

Narcissa stood outside the changing room while Hari tried on item after item from the pile she and Draco had compiled. After he scrambled into each outfit, he stepped out- his undernourished frame highlighted by how loose even the smallest clothes were. A twinge of sadness in her gut accompanied her gaze at the quivering figure, but the warm smile she offered the boy betrayed nothing of the sort. “The colours suit you well, but the fit isn’t quite right. I’ll get Draco to speak to an attendant, and see if we can get them tailored for you. How does that sound?”

Hari trembled, unsure of what to say, what to feel. There must be something wrong with him- an entire store of clothes, and nothing fit him properly, or at all. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to the pile of clothes on the floor, beautiful fabrics of rich emerald, teal and maroon- clothes far too good for a freak like him. Hurt pricked his eyes like a blade pricking skin, tears like blood whispering along his skin.

“Hari, what’s wrong?” Draco burst over, more clothes in his hand. “Mother? What happened?” Narcissa bent down, her knees resting on the carpeted floor. “Why are you sorry, Hari dear?” Hari’s watery green eyes met hers, then jerked away. “I just- nothing fits me. There must be something wrong with me. I’m sorry you have to be seen with someone like me.” Narcissa held her hand up to Hari’s cheek, and he flinched away from her touch.

“Most people, magicfolk and muggles alike, don’t find clothes that fit them right in clothing stores. That’s why we tailor our clothes Hari- it’s quite normal for clothes not to fit right immediately, so we alter them to make them fit. There’s nothing wrong with you.” Hari’s eyes stayed pointed towards the floor, and Narcissa suppressed a sigh. “In fact, I’d be more inclined to think you’re not normal if the clothes we picked did fit perfectly. There’s nothing to be sorry for, Hari.”

Draco stood, watching his mother comfort his friend, unsure of what to do. He stepped towards Hari, reaching a hand out to rest on his shoulder, expecting him to flinch away like he did his mother- but Draco’s hand rested on his shoulder without a flinch, and it seemed the boy was even leaning into his hand. “We’re not at all ashamed to be seen with you, Hari. We might not know you all that well yet, but you’re a very sweet boy, and the sort of person I’d be proud to call a friend of my son.” Narcissa smiled, soft and warm, as Hari’s gaze drifted back up to meet hers, and remained there.

Draco’s elegant voice slid into conversation. “You know Hari, Mother doesn’t let just anyone be my friend. The Malfoy name carries a great deal of weight, and only ‘suitable’ people are allowed to be around me. You’re the first friend I’ve chosen for myself.” Hari giggled a little, “But I chose you, Draco,” and Draco couldn’t help but smirk at his friend. “Well, I chose to agree with your terms. Either way, you have the approval of the Malfoy Heir. That means more than those muggles you lived with ever will.”

Hari couldn’t quite bring himself to agree- but he couldn’t deny the warmth that crept over him at Draco’s words. “Thank you,” he murmured, as Narcissa wiped the tears from his face.

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Draco stood beside Hari at the counter, as the wizard folded Hari's new clothes into a paper bag with a lovely pearlescent ribbon. The man retrieved a rather angry looking cat from behind the counter, and plonked its grey-dusted white body on top of the clothes. “Don’t go bringing your pets here again. I would’ve thought Malfoys would know better!” he spat the word Malfoy, his distaste clear.

Draco scowled at the man, as his mother’s body grew rigid and her eyes flashed dangerously. Hari, meanwhile, had darted forward to grab the cat and was hugging her tightly, while she purred loud enough to confuse her with a train. “And perhaps,” his mother spoke, the words formed of icy rage, “a humble sales clerk would know better than to insult the most influential pure-blood family in Britain. Hari darling, I’m sorry, but we’ll be buying your clothes elsewhere today.”

Draco’s eyes glimmered with malicious amusement as the sales clerk stuttered, realising that he’d just lost a sale of several thousand galleons. “Perhaps we should speak to his superior Mother, and ensure this… man,” Draco pulled a face, as if the word tased sour on his tongue, “is aware of how to properly treat customers.” If the man was afraid before, he was terrified now- his complexion positively ghoulish from the lack of blood flow. “I’m- I’m sure that’s not necessary, Mrs Malfoy,” he stammered, his eyes pleading, ignoring the boy who actually spoke, to Draco’s utter disdain. Hari, he noted, looked an odd combination of guilty and vengeful, and he pulled his friend closer to whisper in his ears.

“Because of what Father did in the war, a lot of wizarding families hate us. But we can’t let ourselves get trodden over, even if we do deserve some of the looks we get. Plus,” he smirked, “I’m going to be the Head of the Malfoy Family one day, and Mother wants to ensure I still have power when I claim my title, even if I choose a different path to Father.” Hari nodded, but the guilty look still did not subside. “Come now Hari, this isn’t your fault. He’s insulting us, not you. You haven’t caused any trouble, we’d get treated like this without you here as well.” At that, the guilt in Hari’s eyes began to fade, and Draco squeezed his friend’s hand.

“I do believe my son is right. Fetch your superior, immediately.” The sales clerk nodded, and trudged off to fetch his manager.

By the time the manager returned, Hari and Draco were chatting and laughing, while Narcissa gazed on the boys with fondness. The sales clerk cleared his throat, and presented his manager to the Lady of Malfoy Manor.

“Mrs Malfoy. I understand you were displeased with the service you received today?” 

“That would be correct. Upon entering the store, my son’s friend had his familiar confiscated by this clerk. We were not offered any assistance throughout our shop- thankfully Draco was willing to fetch clothes for his friend here. Once we came to finalise our purchases, the honour of our family was insulted by your clerk here. We are prepared to take our business elsewhere- which is a shame, as the articles Draco chose suit so nicely, but felt it important to notify you of the abysmal service we’ve received so that it can be corrected for all future customers.”

“My apologies. After three bouts of training for similar incidents, my employee should’ve learnt by now.” she glared at her employee, punctuating her statement. “You’re dismissed. Remove your personal items from your locker, and leave the store immediately.” The sales clerk slunk off, muttering under his breath. “Is your familiar alright, sir?” she addressed this question to Hari, and he looked up to her, nodding. “She was more than a little put-out to be separated from me, but I’m just glad to have her back.” Hari’s cat licked his nose in agreement, and Draco held back a chuckle at the sight.

“I’d be happy to conclude the sale for you myself, with a discount for your troubles. Nonetheless, I’d understand if you took your business elsewhere.”

Draco’s mother nodded, her neck so stiff he wondered if she had a rod of metal holding her neck up. “I am quite satisfied with the quality of these garments, and would like to take them with me today. However, we still need them tailored for a perfect fit- I understand you have a tailor instore, would you consider changing a discount off the clothes to a discount off the tailor?”

The manager sighed in relief. Draco stiffened, knowing the witch saw them only as a source of money rather than people. “It would be my pleasure.”

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Arabella lay curled up in Hari’s lap as he sat next to Draco, eyes wandering around the dining room they sat in- marble floors, polished to a shine, mahogany tables inlaid with golden leaves, draped with gold-lustred cotton tablecloths and sparkling crystal goblets. Hari’s attention was firmly on Draco, his green eyes glimmering as the white-haired boy grinned and chatted with Hari as though they’d known each other all their lives. Narcissa too, watched the boys, a soft smile draped across her lips, a gentle kindness in her eyes that Arabella suspected was only ever seen by Draco. It was clear the Narcissa adored Draco, and was quite fond already of Hari. Were Arabella wearing her human form, she would chuckle- Hari really was such a sweet boy, it was hard for him not to grow on you- but as she was most decidedly feline, she instead began to purr.

Hari’s eyes darted down to Arabella, his smile growing to a beam as he patted the purring cat, scratching behind her ear.

“Oh Hari! You haven’t shown me your wand yet! I brought mine, see?” Draco offered his wand to the black-haired boy sitting beside him, and his friend looked up from his cat with a grin, pulling his wand out of his pocket. The two boys swapped wands, each admiring the richness of the wood, the smoothness of them, the carvings that danced down the rods. Draco found the runes on Hari’s wand especially interesting- his father had told him that only the most powerful witches and wizards could be chosen by a wand imbued with runic magic.

“The wood on yours is so dark, Draco; what is it?” Draco smiled at Hari, and took his wand back, holding the polished stick with a reverence. 

“It’s ebony. Ebony wood is supposed to favour witches and wizards with courage of their convictions, and a natural affinity for combative magic. Father was hoping that I would be chosen by an elm wand, like him, but I’ve always hoped for ebony.”

“Why did you hope for ebony?”

Narcissa began to look uncomfortable. Draco, while not looking uncomfortable, exactly, certainly looked a little… off.

“Well, I suppose because given my family’s alliances, I’ve always hoped to have an edge with combat magic. I’ll have to train either way, but a magical affinity for combat magic would be invaluable. I suppose I’ve always thought that having an ebony wand would indicate my loyalty to my family and their alliances too, and that it would make Mother and Father proud.”

Hari nodded, his skin-colour hiding the hue of green he could feel creeping up his cheeks.

“Do you really think that what your father taught you was right?” Hari shot an apologetic glance to Narcissaa

Draco met Hari’s eyes, his countenance screaming his internal conflict.

“I don’t think everything my father taught me is fact. I think what he’s taught me is what he thinks is right. I’m not sure what is right, I think we all have to form our own idea of what is right, and I haven’t figured out what mine is yet. I think my wand wood is telling me that I will have unshakeable strength in my convictions, even if I haven’t figured them out yet.”

Arabella was shaken. She hadn’t expected the Malfoy heir to speak so openly about his family in the presence of the Malfoy matriarch, and in public too- Narcissa looked as shocked as Arabella felt- especially to admit his uncertainty about the ideology that Malfoy name had built itself upon.

Hari, meanwhile- Hari was beaming.

“I hope we can be friends at Hogwarts too, Draco. I don’t want to be friends with a cronie of the man who killed my parents, but I do want to be friends with you.”

Again, Arabella was gobsmacked. She’d never heard Hari speak so bluntly- the boy was sensitive and shy. She wondered if it was something the snake had said to him. Narcissa was too refined to open and close her mouth like a fish out of water, but her bulging eyes were indication enough of how the boys’ conversation had rattled her. Arabella stretched the claws out in one of her paws, enough to make Hari notice, but not enough to hurt him.

Hari’s gaze jerked from Draco’s eyes to Arabella’s, and she flicked her tail in Narcissa’s direction. Hari, as oblivious as he was, looked straight up into Narcissa’s gobsmacked face, and winced.  
“I’m so sorry Mrs Malfoy, I didn’t mean to upset you,” the boy said, voice shaking. Draco too, looked to his mother, and his eyes filled with shame.

“Hari, Draco, do not confuse my upset with being upset with what you’ve said. I am… concerned, about our location, and who could overhear, more than anything you’ve said.”

Hari slumped in his chair, nodding his head, while Draco sat upright but subdued. “I’m sorry Mother. That was not a fitting way for me to act.”

Narcissa’s eyes softened. “No, Draco, it was not. By all means have these discussions, boys; but please, have them away from prying ears.”

A single tear plopped onto Arabella’s head, and she shook herself, her gaze darting up to Hari’s eyes. He was crying- tears beginning to pool in his emerald eyes, gravity loosening them down his downcast head. She mrrowed softly, swatting Hari’s chin with her paw, and stood with a stretch to lick away the tears spilling down his cheeks. Draco felt the cat’s movement and turned towards his friend. He couldn’t see Hari’s tears, hidden as his face was by the mop of black hair, but could tell he was upset, and reached out a hand to touch Hari’s, a quiet show of support.

“Hari sweetheart, I’m not angry with you. There’s no need to cry. Just… Remember that our family is in the public eye. We have to be careful with what we say and do. You’ll know the feeling soon too, I’m afraid.”

Hari sniffled, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m sorry Mrs Malfoy. I’ll be more careful, I promise.” Narcissa met his gaze with a gentle smile. “I don’t think I like fame very much.”

Narcissa chuckled, a soft sound even for Arabella’s feline hearing. “I can’t say I blame you, Hari.”


	11. A fountain of blood will not wash away memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hari's trauma goes deeper than we think. Something's up with Dumbles, some might say he's going a little mad. Incredibly obvious foreshadowing of what's going to happen, because as fun as plot twists are, I'd like to build up to it first :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major content warning: there is one particularly graphic scene in this chapter, involving Hari and a knife. In the same section, some of Hari's abuse is revealed in detail. You can't really skip it as it's a key theme of the whole chapter, sorry.

After a full three-course meal and being spoonfed by Draco, who wanted Hari to try a little bit of everything, a very full and very content little boy rolled through the Floo, while the cat behind him uncurled into Mrs Figg. Minerva was waiting for them on the couch, her emerald robe spread across the soft blues and purples of the upholstery, her feet in sturdy dragonhide boots planted on the wooden floor.  
“Minnie!” Hari squealed, barreling into her outstretched arms.

“Minerva love, why are you home?” Arabella’s glowing eyes meet Minerva’s steely ones, and she shivers- Minerva’s gaze is ice, despite the gentle hand she runs through Hari’s hair, the other clenched around the boy.

“Dumbledore has done his routine check on the list of students, and found that Hari’s address now matches mine.”

The floor fell out from under Arabella’s feet.

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Sirius sat on the frozen floor of his cell, wondering where the hell he went wrong.

The wizarding world locked him up without a trial, believing that he was the Secret Keeper for the Potters, that he’d betrayed his best mate to Voldemort. 

Dumbledore had been there, the day he was locked up in Azkaban. Dumbledore, the real Secret Keeper, and he just stood there, his eyes the perfect imitation of sadness, and told him it was a pity he fell so far.

Sirius just couldn’t wrap his head around it. Dumbledore wouldn’t betray him, wouldn’t betray any of them. Even in the War, Dumbledore never betrayed a single one of them, despite the fact that his opponent- well, it was no secret that Albus and Gellert had loved each other, and deeply so.

Sirius supposed that if the man was able to betray the love of his life, and kill him to end the war, then he’d be able to do it again for him and the Potters. But the word still rattled around his head.

Why?

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Albus Dumbledore paces his office, flicking his wand this way and that as the room fills itself with explosions and screams.

A soft little voice inside him cries, a broken segment of the man he used to be. “You should’ve listened to her,” it whispers, “Minerva told you they were awful. You’d never have hesitated to trust her in the past”

Dumbledore shoves that thought away, thrusts away the tears that threaten to spring to his eyes and blur his half-moon glasses.

The rumbling tenor, an echo of the man he used to love, chuckles. “Come now Albus. You know as well as I do that only the boy can defeat me. You can’t claim the glory this time, can’t claim the power. I may be the executioner, but you’ll be the one forcing the boy onto the chopping block.”

Dumbledore shudders, tears falling through- a trail of drops on the collar of his robe, a pattern of wounds in his heart.

“You cannot fight me, Liebhaber”

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Hari lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. This was all his fault. He should’ve stayed with the Dursleys; they were right, he was a freak, and he deserved pain. His existence hurts everyone around him; Minnie was frozen steel, looking at him without the slightest hint of affection, and Mrs Figg was a crumpled mess on the floor. And it’s all his fault.

Hari climbs off his bed, his feet dangling before he falls to the ground, and reaches under his bed for the cardboard box of things he brought from the Dursleys. Moonlight glints off the wicked blade of the chef’s knife he stole, and Hari sets to work.

He doesn’t cry, doesn’t whimper, doesn’t make a sound. Uncle Vernon would have heard him, beat him, if he’d made a noise back then.

Maybe it’s odd to hurt yourself when your family does plenty of that itself. But it was never about that for Hari. It was the one feeling he could control, the one punishment he could give himself- to remind himself that he’s not good enough, he’ll never be good enough, and as much as he hates the Dursleys, he deserved what they did to him.

He deserved every lashing from Uncle Vernon’s belt, every meal he was denied, every bruise on his skeletal frame. He deserved it when Dudley held him down and kicked his face until his nose crunched and bled on the carpet, and he deserved it when Aunt Petunia tied a dirty rag around his face and told him to use his nose to clean the mess it had caused. He deserved every time Vernon’s fat foot slammed into his back, deserved the shudder through his body as his bones snapped under the pressure. He deserved it when Aunt Marge tied his wrists to the bed with fishing line so tight that his hands went black, and had Ripper use him as a toilet.

Hari was a disgusting freak, who ruined every good thing the world could offer him, offer the people around him. Hari deserved to die.

With that thought, silent tears began to run, to pour down his face, as he dragged the knife down his wrists, as hard as he could, again and again and again. The same line, flesh peeling away from the knife as it carved through the layers of his arms, until the blood flowing down his arms and pooling on the floor was spraying in bursts, coating the floor and the walls and the roof and then everything went dark.  
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Salazar could smell blood. The snake was curled on a rock outside the window of the room he’d been placed in earlier that day, clinging to any remnant of sun that had since sunk behind the horizon. He’d heard the door open and close, heard the shuffle of footsteps, and heard quiet breathing, like a child trying not to be heard crying. He’d guessed it was Hari, but thought the boy would rather be alone. Now, with the thick smell of blood in the air, Salazar was struck with the memory of curling around the boy’s arm, and feeling the ridges of scars beneath his sleeves, smelling the faint scent of blood that had been.

Salazar has never moved faster.

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Arabella and Minerva were sitting, shell-shocked, on the lounge. Minerva had long since recounted her visit with the Headmaster, and the pair had analysed it as long as they could, after Minerva had sent Hari to his room, so he wouldn’t have to hear the adults talking about him. There were some conversations she wasn’t ready to have.

The women heard a thump, coming from Hari’s room. Probably nothing, but better to check. Minerva stood up first, Arabella following behind her.

“Hari? Are you okay?” Minerva was met by silence. “Hari sweetheart, I’m coming in.”

The two women entered the room- the curtain drawn and lights off, darkness saturating the room.

“Lumos.”

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Hari woke in an unfamiliar room, the walls white and the light blinding. He whimpered, the pain in his wrists agonising, and a blurred figure walked into his line of sight, bending over the bed he lay in.

“Oh Hari.” the figure said, the sound of tears in her voice.

“Minnie?” he croaked, “Did you die too?”

The figure above him began to shake, and tears plopped on his head. The figure bent down to kiss the top of his head, where his mop of black hair met his face. “No sweetheart. You’re not dead. Neither am I.”

Minerva pulled her face from Hari’s head, tears pouring down her face, her heart shattered, and buried her face in Arabella’s shoulder, sobs heaving through her body, the awful sound of a mother who nearly lost her son hardly muffled by Arabella’s soft shoulder.  
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Fawkes had expected the man to collapse, to fall into himself with grief and shared agony, when the disembodied voice of Minerva McGonagall cast itself around his office, echoing through every layer of his mind. He did not expect the silver-haired man to fill the air with rage, a ricocheting spell blasting into an alcove near where Fawkes hid, watching, while dozens of others swept through the room and smashed trinkets, upending even his pensieve and sending memories flying through the air.

“How dare, HOW DARE HE!” Dumbledore bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth and dotting his beard.

Fawkes was a phoenix, and phoenixes did not know fear. But he guessed the ice filling his hollow bones, the slow extinguishing of his internal fire, was what the humans call fear. This is not the Albus Dumbledore he used to respect, and even love.

“He is destined to kill the Dark Lord, not himself! Stupid, stupid boy!”

Fawkes burst into flame. He would not be the companion of a man dancing with darkness, a man courting insanity. His family was sworn to serve the Dumbledores, but the man below him was no longer a Dumbledore.

The phoenix did not rise from its ashes.

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The screaming baritone of the man he loved silenced, as ash fell onto Dumbledore’s head. He brushed a hand through his hair, gazing in horror at the ash soaked in magical residue sprinkled down around him.

“Oh Fawkes,” he cried, his voice thick with shock and grief. “What have I done?”

The agonised voice of who he used to be grew louder, crying for him to listen, to remember who he could be, who he should be. To remember that he is the guardian of the boy, that it is his job to mentor and guide and care for Hari, not to raise him like a pig for slaughter.

Tears fell from Dumbledore’s eyes, falling into the mess of ashes in his hands, making a paste of pain and magic and sorrow. Without thinking, he traced a shape on his arm, the ashy paste brushing his skin, until the voice grew silent as well.

Albus Dumbledore stood, a broken man in a broken office. To do what is best for the child, or for the war? To save one boy, or to save a whole world? To send a child to be murdered, to reclaim the love he once felt, to have the world cast its adoring gaze upon him as he unites the Three, or to nurture an anguished child?

He never questioned why the voice asking him this was the voice of his lover, the faint scratch of a German accent in a rich baritone spelling out his crisis. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps he was too far gone to care, to even notice.

But the voice of Gellert Grindelwald watched with manic excitement as Dumbledore’s mind succumbed to the same insanity as his.

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Hari Potter stayed in St Mungos (that’s the name of the hospital, Mrs Figg told him one evening as she sat beside his bed, holding his hand in the fading red glow of sunset) until it was time to go to Hogwarts. Minnie couldn’t be there to see him off, as she was at Hogwarts preparing for his arrival. Well, not just his arrival, but everyone else too. Though, Mrs Figg said she was especially there for Hari.

He found it was easier to believe that he was loved, now. Easier to believe that what the Dursleys did to him wasn’t good, wasn’t fair. He’d already figured out that part, but hearing the Mind Healer that Minnie asked him to talk to made it feel more real, somehow. He liked the soft smiles of the Mind Healer, the way she met his eyes only as long as he met hers, and the way she never stared at any of his scars.

They made him wear a singlet top in hospital, so they could see if he cut himself again. Mrs Figg cried when she saw the jagged ladder climbing from his wrists to his shoulders, the story of gashes and slices and blood caking his blanket, blood pooling on the floor. The Mind Healer understood why he did it, at least, even though she wanted him to stop. Hari didn’t understand why they wanted him to stop. It kept him sane, stopped him from snapping and hurting the people around him. It gave him something to control, to be in charge of some tiny aspect of his life. It wasn’t hurting anyone except him, so it’s hardly a big deal, right?

The Mind Healer said the cutting was a sign that he’d already snapped. Hari didn’t like that, and promptly walked out of the appointment. Mrs Figg dragged him back.

Mrs Figg couldn’t apparate, so they walked to King’s Cross. Hari savoured the warm caress of the sun on his back, the soft touch of Mrs Figg’s hand holding his, the quiet comfort in long sleeves and soft flannel fabric brushing his arms. Minnie had transfigured his luggage into a paper bird, and Hari clutched the paper figure close to his chest- the bird wanted to fly, but Hari didn't dare let it when his luggage was at stake.

The odd pair- a boy of carved mahogany, his eyes glowing green in the sunlight, clutching a paper bird to his chest, hand-in-hand with a woman of pale driftwood, covered in more cat hair than clothing- walked up the steps of Kings Cross Station, ignored by the people around them. Nobody saw the boy and the woman walk hand-in hand through a brick wall, and nobody would believe it even if they did.

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Professor Minerva McGonagall sat at her oak desk, scribbling furiously at the paperwork that littered it. She heard her door open- it didn’t creak of course, the house elves kept everything perfectly maintained in her office, but she heard the soft jingle of the doorbell charm in the back of her mind, and glared at the imposing figure.

“Albus. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Professor Albus Dumbledore smiled, his mind clearly wandering. “Minerva dear, I need you to have a little chat with Harry before the Sorting.” 

“It’s pronounced Hari, Albus. Don’t you dare whitewash him.”

Albus nodded, an absent gesture. “Make sure he knows that Gryffindor is the best house for him, you understand? He needs to be in Gryffindor.”

“Albus, that child has been through far too much already. I will not be forcing him anywhere he doesn’t belong. Kindly leave my office.”

At that, Albus’ eyes sharpened, and she felt the slicing touch of Legilimency against her mind. “You will do as I say, Minerva McGonagall. If that boy is not in Gryffindor, the wizarding world is ruined.”

Minerva saw red. “Get out of my office, Dumbledore. I will not obey the words of a man I no longer recognise. He is a boy! It is not his job to save the world.” She flicked her wand at the man, and the air behind him sucked at his robes, pulling him from the room.

Albus Dumbledore let himself be sucked out, watching Minerva with piercing grey eyes.


End file.
